Clockwork
by JadeBuohler
Summary: In a future generation, scientists are working on a special "project" to resurrect the dead, using mechanisms and reproducing highly technological life cells. John Watson finds it absolutely horrifying, until he meets the first test subject. Sherlock Holmes, the first human trial in Operation "Chezza". Thing is, he's just a corpse - until the project is a success. AU
1. Prologue

_**A/N: I was really interested in writing something like this, and I thought some of you might enjoy it.  
I am not exactly sure where it is going to go but I have some ideas in mind.  
Please pass your thoughts my way in a review!  
****All the best!  
****-JB**_

**Summary: **In a future generation, scientists are working on a special "project" to resurrect the dead, using mechanisms and reproducing highly technological life cells. John Watson finds it absolutely horrifying, until he meets the first test subject. Sherlock Holmes, the first human trial in Operation "Chezza". Thing is, he's just a corpse, that is, before the project is a success.

* * *

**_Prologue_**

* * *

_**Interview on Nunco Live Channel:**_

_Ms. Stapleton, is it true that your company and the government have intertwined for a brand new project, dealing with technological resurrection?_

In a way, yes. We are interested in simply taking a mere corpse and restoring it to its life once again. It's a new version of reproduction, really. It is an attempt to add living, moving, and frankly _real_ cells to a dead being. And hopefully, yes, resurrect it.

_Couldn't this be fatal to a test subject?_

Mildly. You see, because we are using advanced technology with mechanically placed organisms to bring back the subject from _beyond the grave_, if you will, it can have both minor and major effects. For example, the cells could mutate, giving the mechanism far greater senses in both feeling and emotion, whereas it could also falter in sustaining the life force; if this happens, the subject will need to be charged on a regular basis. Not to mention the fact that most test subjects haven't had the ability to pass the first stage, which is merely reawakening the corpse.

_Charged?_

Yes, as in: physically induced with a high rate of power, snapping the module back into life, and boosting its energy greatly. It is just like sleep to us; the more you have, the stronger you are, and the more you feel both fulfilled and satisfied.

_What sort of test subjects will you be using?_

I'm afraid I cannot fully answer such a question.

_Rumor has it, you're already moving on to human trials._

I will neither admit to that statement, nor deny it. I will simply say: I believe it could be a phenomenal opportunity for the human race, if we were able to bring the dead back to life. Think about? Never having to worry about losing a family member or loved one.

_But, they won't be the same will they? I mean, won't they be…mechanical?_

It would depend on the death. Cancer? Wherever the cancer was located, could be easily imported with a metal substance, and dose of our mechanical organisms, restoring the body to full health, along with only minor differences, perhaps living without simple sustenance like food or drink, or sleep of course, or they could merely be the same as they were before. Perhaps the subject died from a car accident. Several lacerations to the head, and arm, or a leg; they would be replaced with a metallic compound, fixing every imperfection or flaw.

_So, we'd have a nation of cyborgs?_

I suppose you could call it that, _yes_.

**ooo**

**Comments on Nunco's Daily Board:**

_~Anonymous:_

This woman is ridiculous. This is a threat to humanity. If we were supposed to bring people back from the dead, it would have happened by now. I don't know about you but I wouldn't want my supposed-to-be deceased grandmother walking around with a metal eye that glows, and a leg that clinks and clanks with each step.

_~Danielle2724 to Anonymous:_

I think it is rather fascinating. Think of it, though. Anyone you love, back, and able to stay forever. Why wouldn't you want that?

_~Anonymous to Danielle2724:_

Are you kidding me? Laws would change, physics would be altered.  
We would have far to many people on the Earth. The population in each state, country, town – whatever! – would grow at a steady rate, and wouldn't stop. Our population is far too big as it is, and soon the rest of the world would be boarding at least 1.357 billion, same at China.  
Why the hell would you want one billion people in a town?

_~Danielle2724 to Anonymous: _

You don't know that that would happen!  
Who's to say our population would boost too high?

_~Anonymous to Danielle2724: _

Don't be an idiot! Come on! Everyone would want their family members resurrected, back in their life.  
Soon the surface of the Earth would be covered in these abominations we attempt to call human.

_~Danielle2724 to Anonymous: _

They could always raise the price of resurrection. Perhaps make it an incredibly high pay to bring back a person of interest to you.

_~Anonymous to Danielle2724: _

They wouldn't get away with that. People would give both the government and this crazy lady hell, saying it's not fair that they have the power of God and all that jazz, and won't share it. I mean, dude, they'll probably ban reproduction from the Earth.

_~Gorgfangirl82 to Danielle2724 and Anonymous:_

You both present really valuable opinions. Just argue somewhere else, mmkay? ;)

**ooo**

**Speech by a Jacqui Stapleton, printed into the Daily Feedings Newspaper at 2:03, Sunday Morning:**

I have found that many of you oppose the idea of both human and animal resurrection. Yes, it has its flaws, but it also has its benefits. Therefore, with this speech, I address those of you who have gratefully accepted this compromise, and scientific method miraculously unraveled. I will devote an enormous amount of both time and effort to make sure I produce this project to its full potential. It is a notion of progress in the history of humanity. Yes, these subjects, whomever we test on, will be part machine, but they will also hold the key to the dead. Imagine the things we could discover. What is beyond the grave? Is there a heaven, a hell, a God? Is it merely a black hole, sucking you in, reducing your life force? All our unanswerable questions will finally become explainable and eventually prove their answers right below our very nose. Much work has gone, and will go, into this, so I expect the best from you all in the manner of acceptance. I am not a villain trying to take over the world, or consume our fine planet with newly, mechanical Cyborg species. I simply want answers. I am a scientist, a philosopher, a pathologist. I merely want to crack the code that is life, and death, and need everybody's fine will power and intense motivation and inspiration. Give me this privilege, please. And I will give you something you will never believe, regret, or disapprove of.

I now find that it is the right time to inform you all, those who are reading this, or listening to this, that we have now found a test subject. A human being willing to cooperate with the experiment, I prefer to call it my special project, even as a mere corpse. I know many of you will find this rash and inexplicable, but I assure you, all is planned out, all is illuminated specifically, and all is well prepared. I feel that you will appreciate this frankly _mastered _way of science, without thinking of the scalpels, or brains that went into it, and simply thinking of the greatness achieved by designing this immaculate product of mere metal and mechanics.

Thank you for your time.  
My name is Jacqui Stapleton, and I am satisfied with my work and study in human life, even if half of the world is not.


	2. Verge

**HEYYY.**  
**Sorry for the wait! Let me know what you guys think! :) **  
**I hope it is a fairly OKAY chapter. **

**All the best!**  
**-JB**

* * *

Chapter 1: Verge  
_(The verge escapement dates from 13th-century Europe, where its invention led to the development of the first all-mechanical clocks. They kept time by using the verge escapement to drive a horizontal bar with weights on the ends called the foliot, a primitive type of balance wheel, to oscillate back and forth.)_

* * *

John Watson liked to play pretend. He liked to pretend he was okay. He liked to pretend he didn't have a psychosomatic limp he could never forget about; he liked to pretend he didn't have daily therapy sessions; he liked to pretend the nightmares that haunted him in his sleep were just make-believe, that perhaps he wasn't constantly eyeing the handgun hidden away in his top-left draw, taunting him with silent accusations.  
But sometimes just pretending wasn't good enough.

Ella kept telling him to post on the blog, but honestly how the hell would that help? Said it would be therapeutic. His father had always told him to write. He mumbled on about how it helped get out all your feelings, said that the words flow easier when written down then when spoken. John didn't think he could agree. His father was a bit eccentric, always had been, but that was before the drinking. After his mum died, of course.

And then Harry, his bloody rebellious sister, had somehow physically contracted the, apparently, 'contagious' disease of being an alcoholic.  
It was frustrating, and really, without sounding too childish, rather unfair.

How come they got the easy way out? How come they were able to simply drink away their worries, their fears, and their problems? All while John was sat at his desk, gazing blankly at the small pistol shimmering metallically in the artificial light, so tempting, as the rush of vulnerability cascaded down upon him again.

But, as always, he shook his head and turned back to his laptop. He wouldn't go there. He would reach his breaking point, at least not yet. He still had a life. He should be grateful for making it out of Afghanistan alive, not wishing he could take it away with the pull of a trigger.

He sighed and ran his fingers over the keyboard of his blank-screened computer.

He hadn't even been able to conger up a creative title, merely, "My Blog", followed by the irritable blinking of the vertical line indicating the impatient start of a word; any word, just as long as he typed some sort of word! He groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose angrily, and slammed the screen, of his computer, closed. Leaning back in his desk chair, he took a few moments. His hands simply carded through his hair in aggravation, and massaged his pounding scalp, clearly paining him because of his lack of concentration.

He wasn't sure how long went by. He found himself slowly drifting, falling into a sea of nothingness, surrounded by empty thoughts, as his eyes closed distantly.

Somehow, deep down in that overwhelmed mind of his, he remembered his appointment.  
And then he remembered to check the time, on the cheap watch that was waiting patiently on the rim of his wrist.

And then he realized that he was most definitely, and quite undeniably, going to be late.

**ooo**

"How's your blog going?" Ella asked, her face all too flat for John's liking.

Therapists were tricky. It was like they were trying to comfort you, but thinking something all too different in their heads. _Silent judgment_, John supposed. Ella was exactly like that: seemingly silently judging you.

She was dark-skinned, with fairly short, black hair, and rather dark eyes that seemed a little too contrasted in the oddest way. They stood out the most, staring you down in an attempt to almost scare the words right out of you. They were intense – faintly sinister.

But John never said that aloud; _why would he_?

"Yeah, good." John bobbed his head up and down, and steadily cleared his throat, "Very good."  
His mind flashed back to the impatient blinking of that infuriating vertical line, awaiting the extent of John's thoughts.

"You haven't written a word, have you?" Ella sighed, shaking her head slightly and staring apologetically his way.

John had a hard time swallowing as the knot in his throat simply continued to grow, whilst Ella scribbled something onto the clipboard she held, placed just above her knees.

"You just wrote 'still has trust issues'." He pointed out, eyes narrowing in a sort of irritation, however oddly satisfied with himself.

Ella gave him that distant look and blinked, "And you read my writing upside down."

John's eyes dropped as she sighed, "D'you see what I mean?"

He found himself smiling rather awkwardly, and messing with the placement of his fingers on the arm of his current seating arrangement.

Ella leaned forward, bracing her arms on the roof of her quadriceps, and eyeing John carefully and cautiously.

John froze, knowing a full-blown monologue would come next.

"John, you're a soldier. It's gonna take you a while to adjust to civilian life; and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

John wanted to groan at her words, throw his hands in the air, and yell 'I'm trying!', but he simply went for an easy and bluntly honest answer.

"Nothing happens to me."

xXx

"And you've induced the neutralizers?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Vital signs?"

"Not yet."

"Keep working."

"Yes, Doctor."

Dr. Stapleton took another look at the test subject.

This will work. This experiment will be life changing, and it will work.

She eyed his hair, his eyes shut peacefully, his lips still, his limbs dangling from his position in the cylinder.  
She ran her fingers along the wires, double-checking that each colored tube was connected to the correct circuit. She watched as her fellow scientists fiddled with the gears inside his body, working on the metallic shine with careful care and poise.

Each metal body part was a beautiful bronze, gold or silver.

He was beautiful. Her _project. _

Mere commoners could say otherwise. They could say she was wrong to do this; they could say she was a monster working on her feral Frankenstein; they could say she would fail and fall into the land of the forgotten. But frankly, she didn't care.

As long as her little 'experiment' is a success, she will forever drown out the judgment of others and their criticisms.  
She turned to her head scientist, eyes darkening as she grew serious about her situation once more.

"How are our security measures?" She snapped the question speedily, and observed the grey-haired man in curiosity and suspicion.

"Keypads lock every door, Doctor." Dr. Frankland informed her, fixing his lab coat, and giving her a far more professional speaking stance.

"I mean employees." She clarified, her eyes glowering back at him impatiently.

"Ah. One or two security officials, ma'am." Dr. Frankland responded, quite quickly, clearing his throat directly after.

"I want someone skilled in defense and combat."

"Doctor-"

"This is a project of the government, Frankland. If anything goes wrong, we could be in serious trouble. On top of that, I don't want my experiment disturbed. Is that clear?" Dr. Stapleton growled at the man cowering before, and nodding his head hurriedly, "Yes, yes! Of course!"

The scientist spun on her heel, taking another glance at the corpse in the serum-filled cylinder, "Talk to Barrymore. Have him acquire a skilled asset to place outside these doors," She motioned to the entrance of the lab.

Dr. Frankland bobbed his head up and down vigorously and began removing his gloves.

Stapleton watched the still being, wires attached at every end of his frigid skin. "I will not have this project compromised."

* * *

_A/N: Please review! :)_


	3. Strike

**...**

**So I am quite positive this is the longest chapter I have ever written for a fanfic.**  
***voice from the darkness: "_It's not even that long.._."*  
Oh, shut up.**

**So! Loving the feedback, guys and ****girls!  
Thank you so very much! Means a lot!  
Thank you for favoriting and following and reviewing!  
I'm here refreshing my profile, hoping to god I get another review.  
**_Refresh *twitch twitch* refresh *twitch_ twitch*  
**So, anyhow! A lot goes on in this chapter!**

**Please continue to make my day with wonderful reviews!**  
**It would be most appreciated! **  
**Enjoy!**  
**Love you all! All the best!**  
**-JB**

* * *

Chapter 2: Strike  
(On a clock, the strike indicates the destined time by sounding a chime or stroke.)

* * *

John was sure boredom was some sort of torture device. That utterly grotesque feeling of sitting there, on your own, feeling like a complete low-life, because of your lack in plans. He could go out to the pub, perhaps ask one of his mates if they were willing to stay up all night drinking – no, probably wouldn't be best, considering they all have wives and most have children. So what to do? There was always his gun, stashed away in his desk drawer – _no, shut up, John._

The doctor sighed, shuffling carefully over to his bed, eager to hopefully ease the ever-impounding boredom with sleep. He slipped off his cozy, blandly colored slippers – a strange hue of puke green and gargoyle grey – and tucked himself gently along the surface of his white blankets. He merely laid there for a while, his head resting firmly on the softness of his dull pillow, while his toes shifted against one another, legs crossed above the sheets.

Today's session had gone better than expected. Still depressing though. He wasn't sure how these little appointments were going to be much help to him, seeing as though he lacked the motivation to change; to fix himself. And boy, did he need fixing.

He was as pointless as a broken clock, gears hanging from every crack and corner of it's shattered face, despaired by its lack of ability to inform one of the time – its true purpose snatched away from it, defeating its very spirit and will to carry on. Bit melodramatic, sure. But still very true – for John at least. And it was thoughts of broken time and uneven clockwork that sent John into a very dreamless slumber.

* * *

_"It's a wise man who understands that every day is a new beginning, because boy, how many mistakes do you make in a day?  
I don't know about you, but I make plenty. You can't turn the clock back, so you have to look ahead."_

-**Mel Gibson**

* * *

"We have several acceptable mercenaries available, according to your qualifications, Dr. Stapleton." Barrymore informed her, Frankland sitting directly beside him at the grey office table, filing through multiple folders he was having a hard time organizing.

Jacqui Stapleton sighed, nodding and motioned for the men before her to carry on, to which Barrymore reached over, grabbing hold of one of the manila folders held in a lack of grace from the other man, his white hair atop his head seeming to fade with every new day.

The older man laid the file out before her, opening it up to reveal a rather dark looking man. His hair was flat and his face was almost sinister, to which Dr. Stapleton immediately turned away from.

"_Trevor, Victor._ Twenty-two, currently works on secret affairs involving the government." Barrymore spoke the words slowly, as if hinting at Stapleton to '_definitely turn this one down_'.

Jacqui shook her head almost instantly, "No. Absolutely not. He doesn't look at all trustworthy. I need someone dependable, honest, and fully aware of the serious circumstances at hand. That's not him."

Barrymore nodded, and Frankland looked somewhat relived, "Thank god. He scared the _crap_ out of me."

Stapleton merely sent him a _'this is not a joke'_ glare, before turning to stare down the next folder, of which Barrymore had already laid out for her.  
The man was rather fair-haired, smiling casually. He seemed brawny, quite mature, and overall he glowed in a vibe yelling '_formidable but soft_'.

"_Murray, Bill:_ Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Currently serving in Afghanistan – though, it would not be a problem to bring him over. In my opinion, he is nearly perfect."

Stapleton turned her nose upward, "He's better, but not quite."

Barrymore sighed and nodded, hesitantly holding up the next file. "This one cannot be guaranteed."  
He opened it to reveal a small, middle-aged man. He was grinning quite widely, the color of his dusty blonde-grey hair almost fading into the sandy background. She read over his credentials, eyes widening in admiration for the young man.

"_Watson, John_. Army doctor; he was serving in Afghanistan before he was discharged back to London after getting shot in the shoulder. Currently lives in Westminster, attending several therapy sessions weekly, dealing with a psychosomatic limp, and post traumatic stress disorder."

Stapleton leaned back in her chair, brows furrowed in calculation.  
After a moment, she bobbed her head up and down, pointing back down at the small folder. "_Him._"

Barrymore narrowed his eyes, "_Sorry_?"

"He's perfect. He understands discipline, and he understands all genuine seriousness. Plus," She smiled innocently, "he's a doctor, how can I refuse?"

Barrymore glanced over at Frankland, who merely sat still, eyebrows raised in suspicion, and then turned to face the leading scientist again.  
"With all due respect, Dr. Stapleton, are you sure you want to take on a damaged mercenary? Surely his emotional scarring may get in the way of-"

Stapleton was having none of it, "I would like him on my team, Major Barrymore. I will have him stand beside the project all day. Guarding my possessions will be his duty. Come now, how hard can that be for an ex-military doctor? I'm sure he'll have seen way worse."  
She paused to get up from her seat at the long, grey table, and then slowly swayed toward the door. "What I am working on is a frightening process to some, Major Barrymore. I am almost positive that John Watson will not find it so. Which is _exactly_ what I am looking for."

**ooo**

Pounding. Insufferable pounding. And at what time? _Bloody seven in the morning._ _Sure,_ it's a Monday but that doesn't give people the right to come knocking in the early hours! John groaned loudly to himself, dragging his sleep-deprived body from the depths of his covers, slithering off the bed, onto his feet, and then trudging toward the door. He placed his hand lazily onto the knob, swinging the slab open with a single lunge back of his arm.

Well, looky here. _Suits._

A rather tall man stood, straight as an arrow, eyes hidden behind dark shades, in a black and white tight suit. Next to him stood a smaller woman, far more intimidating than he could ever be. Her eyes were revealed to be a dark brown pit of nothingness, and she wore a tight charcoal colored skirt reaching just below her knees, along with a pristine white dress shirt – black suit jacket on top to match. Her hair was a creamy brown, almost faded by the artificial light, and she merely stood there, the man behind her acting as some sort of bodyguard, while she eyed John suspiciously.

John arched a brow and shrugged, "Uh, hello."

The woman took a step forward, her hand reaching out expectantly, "John Watson." She said his name as though it were a command rather than a question.

John nodded and shook her hand up and down, rather slowly, "Uh, yeah. Do I know you?"

The woman smirked and drew her hand away, "_Anthea._ Pleasure to meet you."

John narrowed his eyes, watching the man behind her sway uncomfortably, and the slight twinge upward of her lips when she spoke.  
"Why do I get the feeling that's not your real name?"

She grinned at that, reaching into her pocket to pull out her mobile, "You're a smart one."  
Then all her attention was focused in on her phone, never regarding John even as she continued, "We need you to come with us, Dr. Watson."

John scoffed and crossed both arms over his chest, "I'm sorry?"

'Not Anthea' smiled rather irritably, obviously aggravated with the situation and growing impatient, "Look, John. I work for the British government – and on behalf of the British government, I'm going to need you to come with us now. _Clear?_"

Her argument was hardly ignorable. And being the man John Watson was, he couldn't deny the fact that he was interested. Wholly interest.  
What did the British government want with him?

He swallowed, glanced down at his feet, back around at his flat, and then once more at the two beings before him, "Yeah. Okay."  
He cleared his throat, awkwardly adding, "Do I need to bring anything?"

'Not Anthea' had already vanished from the door frame, her noble guard trudging along behind her, "Just follow me, John. And if you don't mind, don't ask so many questions."

* * *

_"When times are tough, constant conflict may be good politics but in the real world, cooperation works better. After all, nobody's right all the time, and a broken clock is right twice a day."_

-**William J. Clinton**

* * *

John certainly wasn't accustomed to being shoved into a rather large, slick black helicopter, having a bag thrown over his head, and told to wait until they got to their final destination. This was extremely, and undeniably unexpected.

The only way he kept himself sane was by listening to the constant whirring of the helicopter propellers. His brain was firing off accusations toward his mental health. Which was understandable, considering he had just gotten into a helicopter with two people claiming to be government officials. Of course, they had eventually showed him their credentials, but still.

Perhaps he was being taken to a highly guarded prison unit, some strange island where they hold all the dangerous warlords. But John was merely a retired army doctor. What the hell did he do wrong? Maybe they planned on carrying him off to some deserted village, erasing his existence from the world and leaving him there with nothing but a fake ID, a catchy alias, and a few pounds. Okay, now his imagination was getting out of control. Ridiculous. It still didn't defeat the whole question of _why? Why him?_

He finally heard the propellers slowing down – their booming less audible now – and suddenly the black bag covering his eyes was yanked from his head. 'Not Anthea' was smiling his way. She nodded her head his way and gestured toward the helicopter's stairway exit. John didn't question her; he simply followed effortlessly. He stepped from the transport and raised his head to catch sight of the facility before him.

It was a large, white and grey, and rather gloomy, building that appeared as more of an asylum, than the words currently titling it in broad lettering: _Baskerville, Testing Site. _John smirked to himself. _Dartmoor,_ then. Did they really need to cover his eyes?  
But his face fell and hardened as he processed the transpiring information. _Testing site_? Why the hell was he on a _testing site?_

A hand on his shoulder pushed him forward, the large bodyguard glaring down at him accusingly.  
John merely scrunched up his nose and proceeded toward the large, glass doors awaiting him almost expectantly.

From those doors, a new figure was revealed, stepping out into the light of the outdoor world, which was currently a background of woodlands, no civilization in sight at this point. The being headed toward him appeared to be a doctor – or a scientist? – as she wore a bleached white lab coat, and mint green gloves. She had a rather angular shaped face; every thing profusely pointy, especially her nose, and her hair was a mix between dusty blonde and grey, quite like John's own hair color. She was certainly older, perhaps late 40s, and had faded brown eyes, seemingly attempting to stare down to the depths of your soul. She appeared oddly familiar.

John found himself stiffening subconsciously, and stumbled slightly on his limp as she drew nearer and nearer. He nodded his head her way, as she closed the rather lengthy gap between the two.

Removing a glove, she grinned and extended her hand, to which John grabbed and shook politely, "John Watson. So glad you could make it."

John narrowed his eyes and attempted a smile, "Uh, yes, well, I didn't really have much of a choice."

She chuckled at this and bobbed her head up and down in agreement, "Apologies, but we intend to use you to our benefit."

Before John could say another word, the woman patted him on the shoulder and flashed the tall man, or bodyguard rather, standing sternly behind him a quick order, "Thank you, Neilson. That'll be all."

The scientist – _or doctor_ – then guided John toward the glass doors, a wide partly satisfied smirk lacing her features.

**ooo**

"Dr. Watson, I'm sure you've heard of Project '_Chezza'_?"

John narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow to the question, "I'm sorry?"

The woman nodded as if understanding, "My new experiment. I intend to resurrect a corpse with the correct mechanical structures and life cells."

John finally understood who this woman was. The one in the papers, and on the TV, and on the Internet; all over the Internet actually. The one blabbing on about her plan to bring back the long-since-been dead, the woman who apparently wants to turn the world into a freelance walkway for androids, or, rather, cyborgs. John Watson wasn't sure how to feel about the whole thing.

But what the hell did this ambitious scientist want with him?

John cleared his throat and tried out a nervous smile, "Ah yes, Dr. _Stapleton_, am I right?"

Dr. Stapleton nodded, "_Yes._"

John observed as they walked down a long, all white corridor, so white it was basically glowing fluorescently. A few officials, most in army uniform, passed by, all acknowledging the scientist next to him with firm, respectful nods.

"I've read about you in the papers. That is quite the project you have going on."

Jacqui seemed to appreciate his statement, "Yes, indeed, and it has all been successful thus far. Which is where you come in."

John's interest perked at this and he raised his brows expectantly, gazing politely at the scientist.

"Dr. Watson, we have enough security means to keep minor items of importance safe, locked away. But with word of the project progressing to human trials, I fear that it is not as safely protected as I'd like."

John nodded as the scientist continued, "I have looked over your previous endeavors, military and current, and frankly you were immediately the perfect candidate for the job."

John furrowed his brows, "And what is the job? Exactly?"

Stapleton smirked politely, "I need you to supervise my project as all times. Especially through the night, or whenever we are required elsewhere for the time being."

John bobbed his head up and down, and ran his tongue across the side of his cheek, "I see. A bodyguard for the body."

Stapleton chuckled, her pace slowing as they approached a door along the side of the white hall, "Precisely."

John watched as she grabbed a key card from her breast pocket, and gently slid it along the scanner of a mechanical keypad.  
"Here we are, Dr. Watson." She grinned his way, and took hold of the doorknob, "Would you like to see what you're guarding?"

John smiled respectfully and nodded, noting how he was fairly excited. He hadn't felt this strong of an adrenaline rush since the war, and he had instantly forgotten the severity of his PTSD or his insufferable limp.

* * *

_"There's no sense talking about priorities. Priorities reveal themselves. We're all transparent against the face of the clock."_

-**Eric Zorn**

* * *

He waited patiently as the door slid open, and Stapleton led the way toward a rather large glowing room. The entirety of the space was grey unlike the rest of the facility. Wires of every color seemed to lace every border of every corner of every angle. A light blue hue burned along the edge of everything metallic, its shine giving way to a new shade and a new bewildered idea. Shadows were everywhere like the images in a "Noir" comic book; every shadow defined by a long strip of black ink, rounding every circular object, highlighting every angular surface. A long, rather sinister appearing control panel sat spaced out from the grey of the ever shrinking room, as its fluorescent buttons hid from the shadows at bay.

And then_, a tank_. Was it a tank? John didn't care: he was merely focusing on the figure floating just below its flood zone. Blue water, incredibly blue. Not ocean blue, not turquoise, nor Caribbean blue; transparently beautiful, sapphire blue. And it all surrounded a gracious body.

The being's dark curls floated effortlessly in the water, delicately wrapping every so often around the edge of his razor sharp cheekbones; an oxymoron in its efforts to bond: soft and delicate meeting deadly and dangerous. His full lips sat in a pale purple state, as though he was deathly cold. His eyes were shut, the lashes connected to each rim entirely charcoal black, contrasting magnificently against the nearly white shade of his skin. He was clad in a sort of navy colored uniform, skin tight, seemingly appearing as a wet suit, that defined every curve or rise in his body's length. His arms and legs, incredibly long legs, were each shaped brilliantly with the roundness of muscle – not too brawny and not too thin.

The man was, for lack of a better word, beautiful. Anyone with eyes would notice that; boy or girl, man or machine.

The only things disturbing John's thoughts were the multicolored wires hooking themselves graciously around the length of the man's entire figure, and the man's open chest. Open, as in, open _open_; skin gone – simply a pale red inner concave of hollowness. And, even as far away as John stood, he could see the gears, the metallic substance intruding on the man's body. This figure was literally part machine; perhaps, if you will, a robot – but honestly that just sounds immature.

John couldn't remove his eyes, and the only reason he was interrupted from his thoughts was because a gentle hand landed on his shoulder and nearly scared the life out of him. He glanced over at the scientist, careful to keep his composure, "What is _he_?"

Dr. Stapleton grinned whole-heartedly, pleased with John's sympathy toward the test subject, and nodded, leading John closer to the glowing blue tank of still water – or at least what appeared to be water. "He's a vessel, mostly. A machine with highly beneficial intelligence."

John shook his head, quite confused by her words, "Yeah, but he's not all machine is he?"

Jacqui Stapleton sighed and cocked her head to the side in calculation, "Correct John, not wholly. But he's still almost entirely made up of metal, and gear controls."

John pondered the idea, rather mystified, as they stepped closer to the subject. He was merely a few feet away now, and inched his way toward the man's face. He went to place his hand gently on the glass of the cylinder tank, but was instantly stopped by Dr. Stapleton's warning. "I wouldn't if I were you."

John gazed at her intently, quickly pulling his hand back in suspicion.

She flicked her head toward the control panel across the room, "Shock waves are constantly administered when we are not working. It's his way of 'charging' – electrical energy."

John nodded, flummoxed and frankly quite fascinated. "So, who was he?"

Dr. Stapleton responded with a sad smile, "Sherlock Holmes," She paused and sighed, "He was actually quite the character."

John beamed gently back at her, wary at the thought that this man, here before him, was dead and on his way back into the world.  
It made him wonder what he was currently experiencing.

"How'd he die?" John asked politely.

"He overdosed about a year ago. Heroin. He'd had quite the request before hand, you see," She grinned, thinking back thoughtfully, "He was a man of science – told me he would never allow his feeble-minded relatives to watch his empty corpse sleep at a washed-out funeral home with petty flowers and stupid people. _His exact words._ So his body was instead preserved, for scientific purposes." Dr. Stapleton chuckled to herself, "I spoke to him only once in his lifetime."

John ushered her onward with a tentative gaze.

"He was an arsehole to be fairly honest. _Arrogant, rude, obtrusive_."

John raised both eyebrows as the woman went on, "But down right _amazing,_ Dr. Watson."

John smiled and cocked his head to the side, "Why's that?" He asked politely, "What made him so amazing?"

Jacqui Stapleton smirked, "He could look at you and immediately spurt out your entire life story, purely based off deductions." She grinned and shook her head, "When I finally obtained the resources needed to complete the project of mine, I immediately knew he would be the perfect candidate."

John watched as she grinned even wider, "Especially with that IQ of his."

The retired army doctor, jerked forward after taking another glance at the floating corpse, "What was his IQ?"

"190. He was smarter than Einstein."

"Holy shit."

Dr. Stapleton laughed softly, "Precisely Dr. Watson." She paused before continuing, "You see, we need someone clever to act as the test subject, because if – _when_ this experiment is fulfilled they need to have the restraint to handle everything. It won't be easy coming back from the dead and figuring out you're now part machine."

John nodded at the explanation. What would that be like? You felt yourself lose your life and then suddenly, it's granted back to you? It would be _terrifying_.  
He turned his attention back to the wired figure, taking in his magnificent appearance, and imagining the man with the brains of a genius, "It's a shame."

Dr. Stapleton narrowed her eyes, "Sorry?"

John shrugged, knowing he was thinking about the situation from an incredibly different point of view, "Well, he died from drug abuse. Can't help but think with a mind like his, he would have known better. Must have had his reasons."

Dr. Stapleton smiled wearily and sighed, "He did."

John arched a brow.

"He was quite a depressed man, behind the arrogant attitude. Had no friends, his family scarcely made an appearance in his life, and he had it rough in the past."

John beamed sadly and shook his head in disappointment, "I can understand why. Must be hard always being the smartest person in the room and then getting tormented because of it," John then chuckled, "He probably felt like he was living in a world of goldfish."

Dr. Stapleton smiled at his statement and nodded, "I'm sure of it."

Silence passed. They merely stood there, the retired army doctor and the ambitious scientist, staring admirably at the test subject, gears replacing organisms and intestines, emptiness swallowing the figure's entirety.

"So what do you say, Dr. Watson?" Jacqui finally interrupted, staring wistfully at the short blonde man beside her. "Interested in the position?"

John turned to her, a beam spreading across his features, "Oh, yes. Quite."

* * *

_"Even a stopped clock is right twice a day."_

**-Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach**

* * *

**_ooo_**

_A/N: Let me know what you thought in a review, please! *hugs*_


	4. Sequence

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* * *

Chapter 3: Sequence

(The sequence of the operation of the  
gears and/or hammers and/or shutoff and/or trip levers  
of a particular section of a mechanism to produce the correct  
result of sound or mechanical operation.)

* * *

John was ultimately pleased with the opportunity set before him.

Firstly, he was, in fact, given a place to stay on the testing site's grounds.  
Secondly, the food served in the café below all testing rooms, and classified areas, was quite satisfying – at least better than what he was used to.  
Thirdly, he was doing something quite thrilling – and John Watson loved the thrill of action, the blood pumping through his veins. It was the adrenaline rush that he loved the most about working here; every time a needle was injected into the skin of the sleeping figure, or a gear was tinkered with, John was on tiptoes.

He was _eager_. Eager to see what would happen when the time came – the time being, when the corpse would finally reawaken; when the broken clock would finally tick again.

John was counting every second, and he would continue to count every second, every minute, every hour, until sleeping beauty was activated.  
For now, he simply observed; alert to everything surrounding him, as was his new job, but he merely did it so that he wouldn't miss a single detail about the continuous process displayed before him.

Dr. Stapleton ordered other scientists about, pointing a finger every which way, sending others flying on her command, white lab coats racing around the room and painting it with mystery. Dr. Stapleton had thoroughly explained the upcoming procedure – not much, but still enough to clearly inform John of her expectations.

Dr. Stapleton slept here. She had little room, not to far down, an office really, where she would occasionally catch a few Zs – only to be woken up in a fright, and eager to make sure her "special project" was still computing. She stated to John Watson that she merely had "to much to worry about", and therefore "lacks in sleep". John had understood, as he was quite the insomniac himself, what with all the nightmares and blistering terrors that haunted his every slumber. She went on to tell the retired army doctor that she had then considered a mercenary for hire, and resulted in his arrival, and so on – the rest was much of which John already knew.

She then got to the more intriguing news.

The man in the blue tank was set to wake_ two days_ from now, perhaps earlier.

She was going to run more tests, inject more life cells, finish fixing up his organs, and then set him free. Well, sort of. There's only _so free_ he could be. They would then examine the way he moves, the way he thinks, and the way he feels.

By the time Dr. Stapleton had informed him of this, John was shuddering in excitement, the adrenaline pounding in his veins again, like a drug he couldn't live without. And then he had been officially given the occupation.

He was in charge of the safety of this project; which also, partially, meant; he was in charge of its success. If he couldn't keep the experiment safe, then the man in the tank would lose his chance at another life. Would that mean he would be responsible for the man's death? No, now he was over thinking the situation.

Over thinking everything from the comfort of his new bed, in a small room, with a clean bathroom, and TV. He didn't care if it was small, because for once, he didn't have to deal with the ever-demanding threat of a loaded gun waiting impatiently just beside his bed sheets in the corner of an empty draw.

* * *

_"We cannot turn the clock back nor can we undo the harm caused, but we have the power to determine the future and to ensure that what happened never happens again."_

Paul Kagame

* * *

John had been told to get used to his surroundings for the rest of that previous day, which he had fulfilled, and then retired to bed. So, when he woke now, it was clearly his first "real" day on the job. He wouldn't make a fool of himself.

He'd been told by Stapleton that someone would fetch him in the early morning hours, yet no one had done so, so John simply fetched himself. He got to his feet, changed into his uniform (he'd been given a simple vest; a black t-shirt with mere black trousers and black shoes, which he was perfectly satisfied with) and skipped breakfast, instead, washing up and exiting into the white corridors of the testing facility. He was too eager to stroll, so instead he walked, fast-paced – an anxious stride, surprisingly quick for someone of short stance.

He flew past the dozens of vacant doors; their little grey windows revealing only the glow from highly advanced machines, and mechanics. Scientists nodded faintly toward him as he passed them by. He'd made sure to learn the way from his quarters to his designated area, and by now, with all his bottled up excitement, he was nearly there.

He found himself thinking of the man again. _This man_.  
He had been a _depressed_ man, according to Stapleton.

John had thought so, without even having had the privilege to meet the addict; so as smart as he would not simply "overdose" unexpectedly. He had his reasons; John was respectful enough not to question them. Hell, he'd considered the notion several times. It's so easy to do. The suffering is so very prolonged, drawn out, whereas pulling the trigger of a small, seemingly harmless black pistol, held up to one's temple, would pass by in mere seconds. _Barely a second at all_.  
So why go through the process of a slow motioned depression when you could take it all away in a heartbeat – who knew if it would get better, or simply worse.  
Why put yourself through it? Why not just end the suffering then and there? Because it's unfair. It's unfair to those who know you, those who care for you.  
So when the feeling swarms back again, go to them instead. That's why they're there.

Back when his older sister used to be sober, sober enough to talk at least, she'd told him something valuable, something he would surely never forget.

* * *

_"John?" His sister tapped lightly on the doorframe. _

_"Go away." He snapped from behind the closed surface. _

_His sister chuckled, "John, let me in." _

_John sighed; he wasn't one to turn down his big sister. She'd give him hell for it in the future. So he got up; he got up and he opened the door. __And his sister was immediately ready to draw him in for a hug at the sight of his red-rimmed eyes, and swollen cheeks – puffy from his constant rubbing at juvenile tears. _

_"Was it dad again?"_

_John nodded._

_"What did he do?"_

_John sniffled, "Yelled again." _

_His sister pulled him closer, and placed a kiss on his forehead, patting down his short blonde hair with the palm of her hand.  
"He's just angry, Johnny." _

_John nodded again, "I know." _

_His sister let out a deep breath, as John tucked his chin into the crook of her neck.  
"Mum's not getting much better." _

_John tried to weakly reply, but could only respond with a small, quivering whimper._

_His sister continued to weave her fingers through his hair, "Is that why you were hiding?" _

_John attempted to nod, yet again. _

_Harry smiled sadly, and pulled him out of her warm embrace, to look him dead in the eyes, "You know what, Johnny?"  
__She began slowly, "When we're hurt, we try not to hurt other people, those we care about," She caressed his cheek with her thumb, like their Mum always had, "But we focus so much on increasing the distance, that it turns out to be the very thing hurting them in the end."_

* * *

The memory had been so overwhelming; John had almost missed the door beckoning his arrival. He skidded to a halt, took a deep breath, and grabbed at the handle, tugging the door slowly open, and walking toward the scene before his eyes.

Immediately, the commands of working scientists filled his ears. The smell of something chemically balanced burned in his nostrils, and stung his eyes. The air was oddly cool, a strange frigid sensation, against John's bare arms. And the man in the tank was still there; dark curls spiraling down against his cheeks, as they had yesterday. Today, however, he was raised on an incline – a metal slab – most likely so that the scientists tinkering with him had it easier to work with.

The "project" was ever so pale, skin nearly bleached. John couldn't help wondering what color those eyes were, what color they had been.

His strides slowed as he observed the busy white lab coats. Each held some kind of tool, whether it was a scalpel, or tweezers, or merely a screwdriver. Others held dirtied cloths, or delicate gears and mechanical parts. It was absolutely bewildering, watching them do their work on this man, as though he was some kind of vehicle.

"Dr. Watson!" Dr. Stapleton's voice rang through his ears, and the other scientists looked up for a mere moment, before continuing about their business.

John attempted a nervous smile, which probably had only come out as _desperately anxious_.

"I see you didn't want to wait." The scientist before him grinned contently, and John went for a nod.

"I'm afraid I'm a bit too eager."

Dr. Stapleton snickered and shook her head, "Oh, John. You can never be too eager."  
She ended her statement with a wink, and then gestured toward the tank with an extended hand.

John bobbed his head in confirmation, and followed the woman toward the figure draped beautifully over the metal slab. Once there, one of the scientists, whose fingers had just been fixated over a certain gear-ridden area, turned to John, a bright smile on his face, revealing white teeth which, frankly, shined as bright as his white hair.

Dr. Stapleton still had her arm out-stretched, eager to introduce the two. "John, this is my assistant Bob Frankland. He works closely at my side."

John reached out and shook hands with the pleasantly all-too-happy scientist grinning his way. "Pleasure to meet you."

Dr. Frankland nodded, "Aye, John. I hear you're the new recruit. Be sure you keep this guy safe, won't you?" He flicked his head over to the sleeping body, so very close to where John stood. When John glanced at him again, he was immediately entranced, just as he ever was.

With a bob of his head, John agreed to Dr. Frankland's words, resulting in a smile from the white-haired scientist.

* * *

_"You have to be like a clock spring, wound but not loose at the same time."_

Dave Winfield

* * *

Stapleton then led John closer to the figure lying flat on the grey slab, which ultimately worked as a constant reminder that the man before him, this fascinating man, was dead. John's adrenaline surged even further, as he neared the frozen still body, eyes closed, dark hair dripping in the blue water that currently sat beneath him.

"Today we are focusing on enclosing all open wounds. Finishing the mechanics." Dr. Stapleton informed him, and once she had finished, she quickly snapped her fingers and the scientists, constructing the masterpiece, filed away.

John turned to her and arched a brow, to which the woman merely shrugged and faintly shook her head; "I'd like it quiet while I explain the procedure to you."

John nodded with a small smirk, glad that he could count for something more than a mere "security guard". John took a few steps toward the corpse, feeling more confident now that the crowding white lab coats had vanished. Dr. Stapleton trailed behind his every movement, clearing her throat to explain the situation.

"Because Mr. Holmes suffered from a drug overdose, it is not so easy to ensure he is thoroughly constructed in all the right areas."

John nodded, listening intently, and now only a few feet away from the man's subtle expression.

"So, as a result, most of his body has been replaced with metallic substances, and mechanical features."

John found himself wincing at the words. _So, what did that ensue? _On the outside he would appear to be a normal man, but on the inside, a _machine_? John neared the being, and took a look at the open area surrounding his torso. He couldn't help the gasp that escaped him; gears of all shades, gold and silver and bronze, sat lifelessly in the heart of this corpse's chest. Organs replaced with smooth metal fragments, lungs replaced with clicking controls, and…

"Where's his heart?" John questioned, eyes narrowing as he turned his gaze back to the man's distant features.

Dr. Stapleton sighed and took a step forward, "Yes. You see, the human heart is a little harder to replicate."

John whirled to face the scientist, eyes wide in disbelief, as she seemed to grimace inwardly. "So what? He just _won't_ have one?"

Dr. Stapleton teetered her head back and forth, and shrugged slightly, "It's tough to say, Dr. Watson. The human heart is a complex thing. He will have a metal substance acting as a heart, but it will not have the exact abilities of one."

John swallowed, and then turned, once again, to the man on the slab. He found himself raising a hand to the being's skin, and once aware he was doing so, he immediately froze.

"You may, John. No shock waves as of now."

John chuckled, "That's reassuring."

Dr. Stapleton grinned pleasantly, and observed as John leaned in to place a few gentle fingers on the pale complexion of the man's forearm. The texture he felt wasn't the feeling that normally emanated off of a human's frail skin. The man was unexplainably cold, and not just because he had no blood flowing through his system, but also because underneath that very same skin, there was several pounds of metal – frail metal; cold, frigid metal. The complexion John's very fingertips sat upon felt oddly soft, too soft to be that of a corpse. His eyes roamed from the man's forearm to his face. For a moment, he had to do a double take. He could have sworn he saw a faint twitch at the corner of the man's lifeless lips. John shook his head slightly and only gazed at the figure so coldly placed on the hard, metal slab. He felt as though the man appeared sad; John's vision twisted his appearance into that of a dejected cringe, eyes closed unwillingly, eyebrows almost furrowed.

"Beautiful, huh?" Stapleton's voice echoed in the small, empty room, and immediately had John springing back to life.

He drew back his hand, cleared his throat and turned to the woman, shooting her a small nod.

She grinned, almost wickedly, and approached the man as well. "He is my _creation_." Her pointed fingers moved down to weave through the "project's" curly, dark brown, drenched hair. John bobbed his head up and down, feeling slightly uncomfortable in the same room as this proud scientist.

He still couldn't decide. Was this wrong? Turning a dead man into a machine in order to bring him back to life? There were the benefits, and then there were also the faults. He would live again, back in the world like he never left, except he would notice the differences, because he would be all machine – his innards replaced with gears and solidified, marble metal. But maybe he would get to see his family again, bask in the sunlight he would miss if he were under the ground. Then again, perhaps it wouldn't be right. Perhaps they had already moved on. John couldn't wrap his head around it, and before he could attempt to anymore, he was interrupted by a sharp cold voice.

"Dr. Stapleton, kindly remove your hands."

Both John and the scientist whirled around to take in the sight of a tall, rather intimidating man. His eyes were narrow, his skin creased at their corners – as though he was always seemingly angry. He was only slightly big-boned, however hardly, and he wore quite the appealing dark grey, striped suit, with a tie, a shade of a faded red. In his right hand, he leaned on a black umbrella, and overall John immediately got three words: _wealthy, classy, and government._

Dr. Stapleton momentarily scowled and let out a long sigh, "_Mycroft._"

John arched a brow, and fixed all his attention on this "Mycroft" character, as he came further into view, approaching their position next to the man on the slab, just above the blue tank.

"Although I do not consider this _thing_ my brother, it is still unsettling to watch you card your fingers through his curly locks." The man's tone of voce was menacing, mocking, and John watched as he ultimately made Dr. Stapleton feel like a tit. John cleared his throat, stiffening at the word _"brother",_ and Stapleton instantly glanced his way and then toward the newcomer.

"Sorry, John." She huffed and shook her head at this "Mycroft".  
"John Watson, meet Mr. _Mycroft Holmes_. The brother of Project _Chezza_."

Mycroft bowed his head intelligently at John's gaping expression, and then neared the being above the tank of blue liquid. John observed the man's features. He seemed sad, disappointed, conflicted. Perhaps, sad that his brother had died so young, perhaps disappointed he had been turned into a machine, and perhaps conflicted by the question of: _Is this still my brother? _

"When do you plan to resurrect it completely?" Mycroft asked, his eyebrows raised in suspicion. John winced at the use of "_it_".

"By the look of things, we just might have everything ready by tomorrow – early morning." Dr. Stapleton clarified, and John was instantly on edge. He was all too eager to hear this man speak, and see him in action; watch as he welcomed life back into his mind again.

"Fine. I will be there." Mycroft confirmed, took one last look at the man on the slab, blinked, took a deep breath, and then slowly turned away and toward the exit.

"Why don't you just admit it?" Dr. Stapleton called out after him, and John narrowed his eyes, watching the two of them intently.

Mycroft sighed and shook his head, "Admit what, Jacqui?"

"That you're not just showing up to keep everything in check. That you're actually just showing up to see him again." Stapleton said the words in all seriousness, one hand extending to point at "her creation's" lifeless body, sprawled out on the metal slab.

Mycroft didn't respond to her statement. He simply said his farewell, and exited out of the large laboratory doors.

John attempted to swallow the knot in his throat, but was caught unprepared, ultimately resulting in a strained cough. This caught Stapleton's attention, and she was brought back into reality, spinning around to face John once again.

She shook her head and huffed, "He's all too proud to admit he misses him."

John arched a questionable eyebrow, "Why's that?"

Jacqui laughed, "It's just the way he is. It's the way Sherlock was too."

John cocked his head to the side, glancing over at the frozen still, so pale, so thin, body, "And _how's_ that?"

Dr. Stapleton chuckled sadly and sighed, "Well, the two of them don't care for sentiment, for emotions. It's just not their thing."

John scoffed and smirked slightly, "What do you mean?"

The scientist shrugged, "Well, Sherlock – he was a self-proclaimed sociopath."

John's eyes widened, "Interesting."

Dr. Stapleton nodded and gently swayed over to the small control panel in the corner of the room. She tapped one of the glowing buttons and John watched as the slab _"Chezza"_ was sprawled out on lowered gracefully, bringing the figure back down into the blue water swashing to and fro below him. Then for a moment, the liquid flickered, flashed and then fell utterly still. _Shock waves_, John presumed.

Dr. Stapleton returned to John's side, and shot him a weary smile, "I'm going to grab a cuppa." John bobbed his head up and down; understanding now was his time to stay focused on his own task at hand. "I'll be up again soon. So will the others. We are going to fix him today, so that by tomorrow morning, we will have life."

Her statement caused John to jolt slightly. _Life. They would have life. _

She sent the retired army doctor a soft smile, and left the way Mycroft Holmes had. Silently, and rather quickly.

So, once again, John Watson was left alone with his ever-conflicted thoughts.

* * *

_"Don't watch the clock; do what it does. Keep going."_

Sam Levenson

* * *

Mycroft sighed as he thought of his brother reawakening.

It wasn't right. It wasn't genuine. It wasn't human.  
But when was his brother every rightfully human?

Mycroft smiled gently, remembering the experiments in Mummy's garden, kitchen, sometimes even on their father's bed.  
His brother always got beat pretty hard for those ones.

He remembered how his brother used to plead for Mycroft to take him to the morgue or to the graveyard, eager to study the dead and observed the unlawful.  
Mycroft had almost always turned him down. He inwardly cursed at himself; _why did you always turn him down?_

He hadn't known his brother, _he wouldn't say his name_, was unhappy.  
He hadn't known he was depressed.

He didn't know about the bullying in his brother's early days, or the drugs, or the excess smoking.

He'd always known about the loneliness though. His brother had always been lonely; he hated people, hated interaction, and hated emotions.  
That was partially Mycroft's fault. He taught his brother how to _not_ cry, and how to _not_ feel.

He had turned his little brother into a full-fledged, high-functioning sociopath, and he hated himself for it.  
But what was he to do? His brother was dead. _He was dead_.

No ridiculous government "project" would change that, even if they did have his little brother walking around like a mechanical zombie.  
That _thing_ they are experimenting with is and never will be his brother.

His brother was never made of gears or controls or mechanics; his brother was warm, bled like a normal person, functioned like a normal person (most of the time).

It wasn't like Mycroft wanted this.

He despised the fact that his brother hadn't wanted a funeral or a viewing.  
He despised the fact that his brother gave up his remains to science, to something he would never even come to face in the after-life.

Until now, of course. That volatile scientist was poking him, prodding him, tweaking him; turning him into her own personal robot.

He sighed again, _I'm sorry Sherlock. I'm so sorry._


	5. Isochronal Error

**Phew. Yes! Another update!**  
**This is definitely the longest chapter I've ever written for a fan fic. **  
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* * *

_Chapter 4: Isochronal Error_  
(A fancy way of saying a mainspring has more power when it is fully wound, than when it is run down.  
The power curve of a mainspring is non-linear, thus resulting in timekeeping errors.)

* * *

John was fine waiting. Waiting till the scientists came back, waiting until he was relieved of his duty. And so he had waited, and just like that his shift had begun. On and off, on and off. A continuous routine, that, frankly, John Watson didn't mind.

He was guarding quite a fascinating figure anyways, so it gave him a lot to look at. Well, some would say not much, but to John it was spellbinding. He merely stood there, by the tank's side, observing the way dark locks flowed above the rim of blue water, the way the closed eyes unwillingly twitched in the liquid's illusion.

And he did so until Dr. Stapleton returned to send him away with a friendly smile, where he only waited some more, perhaps in the café, gazing blankly out the windows at the barren wasteland that seemed to surround the facility.

And he would remain there, until Dr. Stapleton fetched him again.

That day, John had been responsible for a night shift. It was rather eerie at night. Everything was too quiet, apart from the slow murmuring of the shock waves and machines surrounding John's position, or the tiniest ripples sounding from the electrified water. John merely stared, waiting once again, ever so patient, just so that he could see this man come to life before his eyes. John was on edge because of it, his mind spiraling down into the depths of clarity, clearly eager, for once, with the result of his reality. John never fell tired that night. Observing the other man, his eyes closed in an ever so final slumber, had him wide awake; the expression lingered in his thoughts, '_We can sleep when we're dead_'. Completely and utterly true – the man before him only appeared to be deep in sleep, but John knew otherwise.

The hours had ticked by faster than Dr. John Watson thought possible. He had been startled back into reality by the blast of laboratory doors swinging open, sending him on edge, ready for any fight that would be ultimately presented before him. But it was merely a grinning Dr. Stapleton, Bob Frankland and a few other scientists trailing behind her glowing mood. She approached the retired army doctor, still smiling pleasantly his way, as her employees fanned out to her sides, eager to begin their work on the figure sprawled out flat on the tank's surface.

"John! You did exceptionally well." The scientist chuckled, "I knew I made the right choice recruiting you."

John beamed and sent her an affirmative nod, while she strolled over to the control panel, in the corner of the room.

John narrowed his eyes, upon looking at her closely. She was dressed far more appealing that before: her white lab coat covering a fancy red dress, and red heels to match, hiding her feet. Her hair was down, reaching just below her shoulders, and curling at the ends in a formal manner, and John couldn't help but find her oddly attractive. Her features were still all too pointy for his liking, but she looked...nice.

When she turned around, she caught John's eyes and her grin ultimately heightened in length, "I had to be dressed for occasion."

John cocked his head to the side and took a step forward, "I'm sorry?"

Dr. Stapleton smiled some more, flicked the shock waves off, and inclined the metal slab below her "creation".  
"We have representatives coming in today, _John Watson._"

John froze, suddenly internally slapping himself, as he was unsure how he could forget.  
Lack of sleep maybe? But he wasn't exhausted. Maybe he was all too eager, and it was blinding his common sense.

His hands trembled, slightly, in anticipation and he could feel the realization dawning upon him. This creation, this being he was responsible of keeping safe was going to wake up, open his eyes. Eyes that had remained closed for so long, eyes that John desperately wished to know the color off.

"Right! Of course!" John found himself exclaiming, straining to hold back a large grin as Dr. Stapleton politely smiled and neared the rim of her "project's" tank.

John took note that she seemed faintly nervous, but in a confident way – if that made any sense. Her eyes were downcast, as if deep in thought, while her head was held high in pride. John couldn't tell whether there was excitement there or not, but he guessed 'anxiousness', no doubt. She peered down at the motionless figure, her features instantly softening, and reached out to gently to push back a loose strand of hair, lying stubbornly on the man's damp forehead.

"_Sleep time's over, Mr. Sherlock Holmes._" It was merely a whisper but John heard it, and he ultimately stiffened, blinked, and let out a long, much-needed sigh. Taking one more glance at the frozen-still being, John squirmed and swallowed deeply. This was going to be exciting.

For the time they had before the "representatives" got there, the scientists seemed entirely concentrated. Bob Frankland and a few other white coats hurried to close the man's concaved torso, placing every gear, or mechanism, inside with so much grace, poise, and delicacy. When they finally finished, and covered the mechanical insides with a strange materialistic skin (John couldn't even decipher what it was and it made him feel utterly stupid), the man lying on the metal slab seemed so much more alive.

He no longer had that metallic shine emanating from an empty rib cage.  
He no longer looked like some machine, some robot.

John couldn't help but let out a breath of relief. Dr. Stapleton seemed content with the outcome as well, as when she took sight of him, in her words "complete", she squealed in a mild manner and clapped her hands victoriously.

While some white coats relished in their duty of unstitching the wires, Dr. Stapleton and Dr. Frankland went about making the "project" look good.

This figure, this man; was it possible he could look any better than he already did? It was absolutely apparent, to any person, whether they were masculine or feminine, that this man was beautiful, and the fact that he could be even more so astonished John. They smoothed back his long curly locks of hair; smoothed down the tarnished skin littered with injection scars, wire inserts, and electrical charges, and even fixed the tight, leather-type suit he wore in the confines of his little tank.

As John observed, he watched the small droplets slide off his skin like he was a mere glass object, never stirring, simply looking pretty for all the world to see him. Somehow, deep down, John despised this. He despised seeing this man buttered up just so some scientist's goal could be accomplished. He found himself doing this very thing often – arguing with the rights and wrongs of what he'd gotten himself intertwined with.

Clearly, he didn't regret accepting the opportunity, but he also worried about what circumstances that resulted in. He knew how many people opposed this whole organization, this whole project they called "Chezza". But John simply remained to numb to all but one feeling at the current moment: fascination.

* * *

_"Clock watchers never seem to be having a good time."_  
James Cash Penney

* * *

By the time the doors to the laboratory opened, Dr. Stapleton was finished with her "touch-ups", and was fixing her hair, not to mention patting down her white lab coat that covered her small, petite dress.

The men that walked in were exactly the way John imagined they would be. Some tall, some short, mostly all plump, a belly extending out and into the space above their waists, which sported their hemmed trousers, black or brown or khaki slacks, supported by a classy leather belt and classic leather shoes. They either wore fancy dress shirts, or ties with suit jackets, and they all looked entirely arrogant and highly wealthy, their noses turned up in observation, their eyes narrowed as they judged every mark-up of the place.

Among the governmental men, stood Mycroft Holmes, mumbling to a small woman beside him, who John recognized as 'not-Anthea'. He seemed utterly bored for the time being, and in a way, completely heart-broken.

John instantly tensed at their arrival, his insides squirming, anxious sensations and eager notions threatening to overtake his every thought. He watched as each face fell onto the tank and its current occupant, now above the water, sprawled out on the metal slab, looking luxurious in his newly bare layout. The wires were gone, his concave torso was no longer concave, apart from being utterly skinny, and he looked entirely human. John knew better though.

Each man's eyes seemed to harden when they took note of the experiment, and John immediately knew he didn't like them. Any of them.  
Except maybe Mycroft. He felt sorry for Mycroft, at least.

He was jerked rapidly from his thoughts when the head scientist stepped forward, smiling kindly to the officials surrounding her workspace – just enough space mapped out that they could still perform their procedure a good distance away.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Welcome to Dartmoor." She began, grinning eagerly, and taking a swift at John before continuing. "I'm sure you all know what I have been working on here. Project 'Chezza' is the first of its kind, from any scientist, and it will be the first to succeed. I assure you of that."

Swallowing thickly, she smirked and went on, "Before you all, we have corpse. A corpse by the name of Sherlock Holmes."

John observed as Mycroft flinched ever so slightly, and not-Anthea put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock Holmes was twenty-three when he died, a little under a year ago. Drug overdose. Seeing as though most of the damage was to his organs, and the area surrounding his torso and chest, we had to be sure this was all fixed before returning him to the world."

Dr. Stapleton was a natural, in John's opinion. He could already see the representatives turning their noses up in an impressed manner.

"So, I concluded that machines were the only option. We use machines so much in this day and age. To connect with others, to surf the web, to find the information we need for whatever we need it on. Why not do the same with a person?"

Dr. Stapleton extended her arm, palm up and open as she directed the attention back to the man in the tank. "Mr. Holmes' body is almost entirely machine. This will help him to function with out needing constant medical attention, apart from the recharging process, which implies that Mr. Holmes will need an electrical force to," She paused, as if searching for the right words, "recharge his battery, so to speak."

A voice from the crowd rose above the noise, stopping Stapleton before she could continue. A representative arched a brow and asked, "Like sleep?"

Jacqui nodded and grinned proudly, "Precisely, like sleep." She then went on, "Now, as I've said, in previous proclamations, this is a process to revive the once dead. To bring back someone you love, or care about. To stop the pain of grief, and loss."

Her face scrunched up for a mere moment, only to regain its solid composure, "But, as this is the first trial, we need the subject entirely for its brain, so to speak. We need the mind of the man who returned from the dead. Therefore, we held back from a heart, fearing it may interfere."

John held back his gasp.  
He hadn't been told that.  
Hadn't been told that they _decided_ not to add a heart.  
He was beginning to see a darker side of Jacqui Stapleton.

"What he has currently is a mere substitute, one that will not interfere with brain work, or so we desire."

Another representative lurched forward, eyes narrowed suspiciously, chin jiggling as he asked his attentive question, "So his _brain_, does that remain the same?"

Stapleton smiled wickedly, "Yes, in fact. Mr. Holmes was a genius, so no computer or machine replaced his mind, or brain. We do not want to create a robot, or a mere mechanical man, my friends," She let out an innocent sigh, which irked John more than he thought it would, "we merely want to bring a good man back to life."

With that, she clip-clopped in her heels over to a small counter near the control panel, where computers and papers were thrown, scattered across its surface. She lunged open a small drawer, and pulled out a small, metallic block of metal, holding it up high for every one to see.

"This here," She smirked, and held it out across from John, where he could get a good look at it, same as the representatives, "is a chip. A hard-drive, if you will."

John froze.  
He knew where this was going.  
And he didn't like it.  
Whatsoever.

Taking a glance at the group, they all appeared oblivious, except for Mycroft, fidgeting uncomfortably behind them all.

"It holds Mr. Holmes' _memory._"

Small gasps and whispers sounded from the clan of government officials, and Stapleton was suddenly appearing very smug with herself.  
John swallowed the knot stuck in his throat, and found himself clearing it instead.

This wasn't right.  
This was going too far.  
Wasn't it?

Wasn't this woman taking away this man's right to freedom, privacy, and his own thoughts?  
Sure, he's dead, but did that justify it?

Jacqui took a step forward, pride seeping over her expression, "With a series of inserts, we were able to create quite the hard-drive in Mr. Holmes' mind. He still has his intellect, but no memories, unless we insert the drive."

Before she could say another word, there was a sharp outburst from the back of the laboratory. "This is ridiculous."

The scientists and the entire group of representatives turned to gaze at Mycroft's angered position. "I know for a fact my brother did not agree on all…this." He snapped, gesturing to the whole set up, all the control panels, all the buttons, and all the information Stapleton was informing them of.

Dr. Stapleton sighed wistfully, "Mycroft, please do not interrupt me. I will not hesitate to escort you out. Don't you wish to see your brother wake?"

Mycroft stiffened, scowled, and stayed put.

"Good," Stapleton grinned and turned back to the men before her, "Any questions?"  
When no one raised a hand or posed a comment, Dr. Stapleton was positively beaming. "Alright then. Let's begin."

John had one, a question, but refrained from asking it.  
He simply asked himself.

_Who was the man on the slab without his memories?_

* * *

_"History is not everything, but it is a starting point. History is a clock that people use to tell their political and cultural time of day. It is a compass they use to find themselves on the map of human geography. It tells them where they are but, more importantly, what they must be."  
_John Henrik Clarke

* * *

John watched carefully, cautiously, and intently, as the scientists continued to simply push buttons. White lab coats hovered over the figure again, poking and prodding, wires attached once more, vital signs constantly monitored.

Dr. Stapleton was by the man's body, doing god-knows-what, and John was internally cringing. He was suddenly very put off this woman.  
Perhaps she had showed her true colors. Quite a scandalous, evil thing – she was.

The representatives merely whispered amongst themselves, doing the same as John – watching and observing every little detail with open, eager eyes. John was excited to seem the being come to life, sure, but this felt wrong. He felt as though he was in on some torturous torment to a poor caged animal with a lack of ability to fight back.

The whirring of a machine coming to life sent him trembling. He glanced over at the scientists, their white lab coats flying out behind them as their eyes hurriedly vibrated over the monitored vital signs. Signs of life. That's what had gotten them all rile up. John was fervent to take a look but stayed put, simply listening to the utterly haunting beeping and eerie mechanical motion.

"Specimen is charged and ready." Frankland called out, sending John in a fury at the way he classified the brilliant man on the slab.

Stapleton nodded firmly and pointed to a small scientist in the corner of the room, standing beside the control panel, "Flip the switch!" Her command echoed through the laboratory and all the governmental men were on edge; keen on witnessing the result of her experiment – same as John to his own shame.

_Then, John closed his eyes. _

It was a blur of white coats, a symphony of beeps and bangs and startling alerts. Representatives cooed in amazement, astonished by the way the scientists worked. Mycroft seemed hesitant in the corner, appearing as though, to John, that he was debating with himself over whether he should just leave now – save himself the pain. Stapleton was yelling orders, Frankland was dashing from one side of the tank to the other, and John as merely frozen.

Like a block of ice, waiting to crack.  
And then it fell silent, and the ice melted.

Scientists took a few steps back; Stapleton's eyes grew large in victory, and the representatives swallowed and stumbled backwards, too numb for words.

_John decided to open his eyes._

And he was glad he did. The sight that awaited him was so breath taking; he had to take a few steps closer to the being on the metal slab.

And when every one was inching backward, he was moving forward.

Blue – no grey? Silver? Green, with flecks of gold? Fascinating. Those eyes – the eyelids having slowly opened in confusion, bringing the figure to take in the dark, brown, metallic ceiling above him. His first image: an eerie laboratory. How pleasant. John regarded him with the utmost amount of respect and awe.

This man was a miracle. He had been dead and now he was living. But was he truly living? The eyes waited for a moment, staring dead ahead; the man's position still lying flat on his back and taking in the sight above him. John didn't dare move any more – no one did. Everyone was still, watching the man come into the light of the living. When his eyes had taken in everything they could, he twitched slightly, his finger rising, and then falling again. John watched, merely astonished and bewildered. The man blinked, then twitched again.

Then his head moved - it turned to catch a glimpse of the wires attached to his body, the suction pads monitoring his vitals, the aching feeling in his chest. His expression was only a blank stare.

Then his eyes met John's.  
No one else's.  
Just John's.

And John immediately felt helpless. The man gazed at him; with a desperate plead for…what was that? Sanity? Normality? John interpreted it as a cry for help. His eyes revealed more than his pale features, and perfectly sculpted expression. They were lost, empty – innocent. John was hurt. He looked into those orbs of unfathomable hues and fell completely, and utterly, depressed. Because now he felt like the villain. The one who did this – the one who brought back a, finally at peace, man and turned him into a machine one could simply switch on and off.

Once his eyes had fallen from John's, the retired army doctor let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. The man on the slab moved more now, attempting to sit upwards in an act of getting a grip on what the hell was going on. And that's when the scientists went about their duty. Stapleton clapped in success, followed by the many bursts of praise from the group of representatives. John couldn't remove his eyes, simply ignoring the celebration behind him and only watching as the man on the slab fell entirely confused, and frightened. That's when the figure pulled his arms from the wires, pulled himself to sit upright, and gazed out at the crowd, grinning maliciously his way, like he was some prize to be won. John decided to look as well, now that the being did the same, and caught the cowering position of Mycroft Holmes. He seemed entirely, and undeniably, frozen by disbelief. His eyes were wide, a bead of sweat sat on his forehead, and his brows were furrowed in shock. John swallowed, pity welling up on him for the state of the "project's" brother, and then he turned back to the figure himself. A few scientists were carefully approaching him now, arms out in a steady surrender, but the being wasn't having it. His eyes simply vibrated over the audience, afraid and…scrutinizing?

Stapleton was taking a few steps forward now, confident in her ability to get him to settle down. Who did she think she was? John couldn't imagine. You've suddenly woken up from a deep dark slumber, finding yourself educated in so many things, so incredibly intelligent, but remembering nothing of memories? He was an empty shell, merely used for his intellect. And when Stapleton tried to speak with him, John found himself furious.

"Hello." She grinned, and raised her hands in the air, palms up. "My name is Jacqui Stapleton. I'm a friend."

The beautiful figure on the slab narrowed his eyes, instantly causing his cheekbones to stand out even sharper, and his curls to bounce effortlessly. This newly revived Sherlock Holmes glanced over at John Watson, and the doctor felt himself shiver due to the intimacy. The man was staring at him in a way that seemed as though he was asking permission.

_Permission for what_ – John didn't know.

John held his friend, and softened his amazed features, watching as the man on the slab above the tank did the same. And John was yet again completely mind-blown. It was like this being was looking to him for guidance. Why? Because he was the first face that face had seen? Because John looked innocent, friendly enough? He wasn't sure, but Sherlock Holmes turned to glare at Stapleton in an entirely uncomforting way, to which the scientist only grinned wider.

"Stapleton." The deep voice was startling – baritone and symphonic, utterly inviting and soothing and divine.  
This man was incredibly extraordinary. John felt himself easing into the voice, but the words that followed shook him instantly.

"You have a daughter of whom you tell everything to, everything except the story of Bluebell, the glow-in-the-dark rabbit. Why did Bluebell have to die, Dr. Stapleton?"

Jacqui swallowed and took a glance at the crowd, who all seemed completely mind-blown. John only stared in utter admiration.

Dr. Stapleton then turned back to him, and her adoration heightened, "You are fantastic. Absolutely fantastic."

Sherlock didn't seem touched by this whatsoever and merely turned toward the crowd, eyes landing on Bob Frankland.  
"You killed your best friend, and fooled his ten-year-old son into believing a wild animal did so. Question is, why? I'm getting jealousy, and perhaps this friend of yours was threatening to disrupt something important to you – a science experiment, maybe."

Frankland swallowed, and shook his head in amazement. No one seemed too concerned with the information just currently displayed – they were only concerned with the being, connected to wires and stabilizers, on the metal slab.

The "project" continued his method of blunt honesty through all the representatives and scientists in the crowd. He revealed things like how one of them had once attempted suicide, or how one of them had a son who married a distant cousin no one knew about.

John felt like he couldn't breathe. He was suddenly so thankful he'd ever been offered this job opportunity, because if he hadn't, he would have never set eyes on Sherlock Holmes.

When Sherlock's sliver shimmering eyes landed on Mycroft, standing guiltily in the back of the laboratory, the man froze, and the experiment narrowed his eyes. "Your brother commit suicide, and you blame yourself. It's unclear why, however. You were not overly close, but somehow you feel as though it's your fault he's gone." That was when Mycroft left. And John understood why.

How was it, to be accused of all your secrets, by the very person they are about, and know they don't even realize it?

Sherlock found himself gazing at John. His mouth opened, and his eyes glowed in excitement, which John found entirely comforting – in an odd way. But the man wasn't able to deduce John's very life, because a loud, startling beeping had arisen and interrupted his very speech.

John's head whirled to face the monitor revealing the man's vital signs, and when he turned back to check on the "project", his eyes were wide in anguish and his mind seemed to have gone entirely blank.

Stapleton spun around, racing toward the small computer near the control panel, and huffed in exasperation.  
"Malfunction. He needs to be charged. He's used too much of his energy on his mind."

The crowd watched in awe and understanding as the scientist approached the man slowing shutting down.

John observed the magnificent being's expression go dark, eyes fluttering to a close, even while still sitting up. He seemed so vulnerable now, and it irritated John. He wanted to dash over to him, hold his head, before he felt back against the slab, but he was instead pushed to the side as white lab coats gathered around him, lying him slowly down. They got him comfortable on the surface of the cold metallic shine, even while he still twitched to hold onto consciousness.

And John's own heart hurt as Jacqui Stapleton flicked a few buttons, turning the man into a numb, silent machine, and lowering him down into a pool of blue water, gleaming with shock waves.

* * *

_"Time management is an oxymoron. Time is beyond our control, and the clock keeps ticking regardless of how we lead our lives. Priority management is the answer to maximizing the time we have."  
_John C. Maxwell


	6. Fuzee

**A/N: Wow. Sorry ladies and gents. Didn't mean for this to take bluggering FOREVER. **  
**Been terribly busy. Trying to sell prints of my artwork, and rattled with homework. **  
**Stupid stupid homework. **

**But I'm here now! Hush, don't cry! *pats head soothingly*  
Here is Chapter 6! And don't worry, there will be more John and Sherlock interaction.  
It's just building up slowly. I promise! And I will try to update as soon as possible!  
Thank you also, for all the amazing reviews!  
They really inspire me to work hard for you all, so please ****continue the so very generous feedback!**

**Okay! Enjoy and let me read your thoughts in a review! :3**

**Interesting Fact: **_Minnows have teeth in their throats._  
[I know right?!]

* * *

Chapter 6: Fuzee  
(A design by which the power from the mainspring of a clock is delivered to the rest of the system through a spiral cone shaped spool with grooves for the increases the amount of power available with respect to the top end, thus effectively eliminating the effect of isochronal error by mechanically equalizing the power delivered by the mainspring.)

* * *

John just watched. Hell, he felt like that was all he ever did. Just watched.

Observed how the scientists continued to prod, working on stabilizing their creation, working to make sure his energy levels were on an average course. He'd watched the representatives grin at one another, holding tight to their clipboards and files, each dismissed by Stapleton, her eyes sparkling as they all said goodbye in a means of admiration and praise.

Jacqui Stapleton was thoroughly giddy. How could she not be? Her experiment, her project, was a success. She had claimed the appreciation and approval of the higher-order government officials, and she had, in turn, been commended on her risky, yet unbelievably impossible results. She had won, evidently.

John couldn't help but feel a slight amount of excitement and admiration in the midst of all his disgust for her. She was, ultimately, very intelligent, having had the ability to reawaken the dead, but she raveled in it far too much.

It wasn't right to do this to a man. Left to deal with the overpowering amount of knowledge his mind held, knowing only what he woke up from and nothing of who he was before the whole ordeal. The man had opened his eyes to an audience – a slimy, cruel bunch of people; grinning at him with wide, white smiles.

It would be terrifying.

Not only the fact that he looked at each and every one of the guests and spat off a monologue of their life stories.  
Imagine, knowing too much? Knowing all this information about someone but unsure as to why – forgetting who you were before.

It astonished John, and he wasn't able to pry his gaze from the "project" the whole time, even if it made him just as judgmental as the surrounding foes. He couldn't help it. The man was beautiful, anyone could see that, and he was a walking miracle – a phenomenon.

But John saw, when the being had peered into his eyes for the first time, an unmistakable amount of vulnerability, hiding behind the overflowing intelligence. Yet, the scientists and government representatives didn't seem to see the same as the retired army doctor. I

nstead, they gawked at "Sherlock Holmes" with wide eyes, and sneers that would scare away the smallest child. They saw him as a price, as something to make money off of, as something to relieve them of the threat of unknown knowledge, hidden in the upcoming future. Knowledge of death, and money for the impossible project that had came back from the idea of it.

John Watson knew it wasn't right, and that was the reason he stuck around. He couldn't leave now. Not when he was seemingly the only human being here who realized exactly what the "project" was feeling.

Stapleton had closed the thick lab doors behind the representatives, and only John, herself, Frankland, and a few other white lab coats remained. John felt uncomfortable, hesitant to ask the questions that plagued his mind, but when Stapleton headed back his way to type on her black laptop, pull a few levers and tap a few buttons, John made his move, taking a step forward to face her in close proximity.

"What happened?"

Jacqui arched a brow, smiling softly, and rather sincerely, as John gazed in confusion. "As I said, Dr. Watson. Just a malfunction."

John narrowed both eyes and shook his head, "But you said he needed to be charged, which is normal, isn't it? So why is that a malfunction?"

Stapleton was now full on smirking, as she continued to swipe her fingertips over her computer's keyboard. "_Someone_ was paying attention."

Her grin widened as she trotted around her desk and up toward the man under the cool, blue water, eyes shut tight – so strange to John, as they had only just opened. His hair still floated delicately around him, the water straightening most of his curls, as they swayed around his cheekbones and the back of his neck.

Due to her command, buttons had forced the flat surface; he was sprawled out on, to incline upwards, and out of the now ceasing voltage.

"John, it is a malfunction because we want – we _need_ – him to stay awake longer. It is not easy to learn from him if he can only use his brain for less than ten minutes." She sounded angry, perhaps with herself, which, to John, was understandable. This woman was ticked off with herself because she felt she had failed in her new task – which was the idea of learning from her little "project".

"I see." John couldn't form any other words so he simply watched as Stapleton leaned over the tank's border, reaching down to touch her finger to Sherlock's chest. She then turned to John as if attempting to explain.

"The wires connected to him now, John, are the charges empowering him. They are the fuel to the machine."

John winced, and suddenly felt very, very, very pissed off.  
Whether, she realized it or not, Dr. Stapleton was somehow defying everything she had sought out to obtain in this little mission of hers.

"As we proceed, we are looking to make this a portable set up. Wires connected to a sort of battery power if you will," She paused, glancing back down to the being in the blue water, "It can be easily transported, so that if he was ever to move, anywhere at all, he could simply take the battery with him, and leave the tank, and machinery attached, behind."

John nodded, seemingly getting the gist of things. If they were to bring people back from the dead, the "newly revived" didn't want to spend life in a tank twenty-three hours a day. It made sense, of course, but John still didn't see it as beneficial.

As if reading his mind, Stapleton countered, "Soon, once we get the upgrades in balance, he will no longer need to charge for such a long while. If we reach our goals, he will merely need it for, perhaps, three to four hours in a full day."

John's eyebrows rose to this: impressive, sure. It would certainly make for longer conversation of course. John felt selfish in all this. He merely wanted Stapleton to hurry on with her so-called "upgrade" so that the being in the tank could deduce him as he had the others, so that they could speak to one another. Like two friends would, so that John could learn about the man – what he was currently feeling, what he knew, how he was taking everything. Oh, shut up, John. You're not a psychiatrist. He felt somewhat greedy as well, somewhat sinister. In a way, he was doing this for the same reason Stapleton was. He wanted to learn – just about different things – but in his defense, they were fairly more innocent, more sympathetic things. He wanted to treat this man like he was, in fact, a friend.

Perhaps he's mad for thinking like that, but he could merely shrug it off.

Stapleton had long since turned away from the army doctor, and was now spitting orders out at Frankland and the others, telling them to begin the upgrade and continue the charge. John had fallen back into a relaxed manner, simply gazing thoughtfully at the still "out cold" being on the slab, fingers prodding at his limbs, and plastering wires to his every organ.

Some of it made John wince – maybe when they inserted certain needles, or thumbed over metallic skin and bone that had replaced "Sherlock's" used-to-be-destroyed body parts.

John was so caught up in his own mind – due to the ideas swarming his every thought – that he had nearly thoroughly tuned out the slamming on the lab door and the shouts that came with it. John spun around, observing Stapleton and the others already staring at the entrance. The retired-army doctor traced his fingertips over his gear, the weapons he had been given as a guard to the project behind him, preparing himself for the worst.

_"Sir, you do not have permission-"_

_"Of course I have bloody permission!" _

John knew the voice, and once the man pushed on through the doorframe and passed the protesting scientists, John recognized him.

Mycroft Holmes was, of course, a hard man to forget. His suit was ruffled, same as his fair, caramel brown hair. He was gripping his umbrella so hard in his right hand that his knuckles had begun to turn white. John realized, at that moment, that if this were an old-fashioned cartoon, Mycroft would be the angry character with steam whistling out of his ears, face red with outrage. And John, in turn, was empathetic – he didn't blame him whatsoever.

John stiffened, not wanting to be the one to have to escort him out, but once he turned to catch a glimpse of Stapleton's reaction, he sighed in relief. She was the definition of calm, not trifled in anyway by Mycroft's enraged expression. She merely tossed a hand in the air, dismissing the scientists of whom were trying to keep Mycroft from entering any further. Mycroft shrugged a shoulder, forcing off one of the white lab coats' hands, and immediately straightened his suit.

"Mr. Holmes." Jacqui let out a deep, seemingly disappointed breath of air, and went back to fixing her focus on the other Holmes, lying on a hard metal slab.

"You have overstepped every boundary, _Stapleton_!" Mycroft snapped, glaring at the woman who reached to inspect the "specimen's" wire control. The scientist merely ignored him; almost eager on allowing him to have is little unnerved tantrum.

"My brother agreed to donate all he was to the scientific need, but he did not agree on playing_ lab rat_!"

John winced at the words, in all his honesty, openly agreeing with Mycroft Holmes.

"I did not expect this _shell of Sherlock_ to wake completely unaware of who I was! Or even, _who_ he _was_!"

Stapleton spun around at this, and sighed audibly, "Mr. Holmes, you are getting _far too_ worked up over this."

John grimaced at her nerve. Mycroft took another step forward, causing the army doctor to stiffen, and Stapleton to merely crack a smirk.

"Oh, am I?" He spat out, glowering sharply at the woman he saw as insufferable.

"Indeed. You see, Mycroft, we are not keeping his memories from him forever."

The project's brother seemed to soften at this, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"We merely need him to stay purely 'knowledge' while we run the tests required, and learn what we need to know. Once that is done, we will insert the memory card and give him to you." Stapleton seemed utterly pleased with herself, and grinned at Mycroft's blank expression.

"It's only till we get rid of the minor errors, like the one we just had – a temporary, easily fixed _isochronal error_." She then began to chuckle, all whilst approaching her laptop sat on the empty desk once more, "No need to get your knickers in a twist."

John watched as Mycroft scowled, still seemingly pissed with the scientist, as she typed away doing God-knows-what.  
The clearing of a throat knocked them all from the intensity of the brewing argument, and the tension disappeared once Frankland appeared before them, smirking slightly, yet nervously their way. Stapleton looked up, eyes wide with interest as her head-scientist loomed in front of them.

"Yes?"

Bob nodded and bit his lip, eyes glancing at John, then Mycroft, and then back to his boss, "The upgrade is progressing nicely, Dr. Stapleton. It should be finished fairly soon."

Jacqui arched a brow, and straightened to better stare down her employee. "_How soon_?"

Frankland shrugged slightly, looking up for a moment as if in thought, and then back down, "Give or take ten minutes."

Stapleton bobbed her head up and down in comprehension, turning back to John and Mycroft. "Mr. Holmes, would you like to stay? We are going to have your brother awake longer this time, and attempt to divulge him in a clear conversation."

From Mycroft's expression, he knew the man longed to say _no_, but couldn't bring himself to.  
The 'British government' nodded slowly, and took a few steps back, "I'll watch from the sidelines."

John noted he still seemed entirely outraged, but didn't appear to have the energy to orchestrate it.

The scientist, hovering in front of John now, her coat blindly white, raised her chin in questioning. "John? I assume you wish to stay?"

Hell, her "project" was the only reason he was really here for in the first place – so John nodded, _vigorously_.

Dr. Stapleton grinned, and turned back to the tank. "Alright then. Let's begin."

_Again_, John added, excitement coursing through his veins.

* * *

"I must govern the clock, not be governed by it."  
-Golda Meir

* * *

John found himself watching again. Of course.

He watched as the white lab coats bustled around the laboratory, eyes wide in anticipation, while Mycroft stood hunched over in the corner, not-Anthea now standing beside him, as he had most likely texted her, in need of his own sort of support – which John could understand. Stapleton was currently dragging an ugly grey chair over to where the metal slab was inclined, it's screeching nearly driving John insane. Frankland was stood by the laptop along with the multicolored switches, levers, and buttons, typing furiously. The others were carefully, yet rather haphazardly, removing the wires from the suctions gripping firmly to the "project's" pale, white skin. John jiggled his leg where he stood, switching his weight over from one leg to the other.

He was nervous this time.

It was only a mere handful of people observing this time, no representatives for Sherlock to deduce – and frankly, John was the only person in this room he hadn't _deduced_. That was what unsettled him, in an excited, anxious sort of way.

Stapleton sat in the metallic glazed chair, calling over her shoulder to Frankland, "Charge?"

Bob Frankland immediately answered with, "98%."

She nodded firmly and snapped a finger at another scientist, "Dr. Livingston! Bring me my file!"

A shorter man trotted over in his white coat and leaned down to hand the 'sitting Stapleton' her navy blue folder. She thanked him with a bob of her head and ripped it open, causing several papers to flap in outrage of being disturbed. She dragged out a white sheet, revealing multiple typed questions, and tucked it gently into her lap, closing the file, then, and placing on the floor by her feet.

"Frankland?"

"Subject is charged and ready."

"_Flip the switch_."

It was silent for what felt like years to John, and he was starting to think nothing was going to happen, that Stapleton's project had actually failed to work, and she'd lost her opportunity. But he'd thought too soon.

Those same multicolored silver-blue-gold-green eyes fluttered open, and the man had once again returned to his living surroundings.  
John squirmed in his stance, watching (of course) as the curly haired head rose minutely to take in all gazing down upon him.

John admired the sharp cheekbones again, shadowed exquisitely against the bleached color of his skin. He admired the curly that were dripping water on the ends, and, even though severely ruffled, still appeared beautiful in contrast to his eyes.

His lean, long, slender body moved in delicate ways, making grace a priority, as the man attempted to sit upward again, taken by all the strangeness surrounding his current position. Then, ruining John's admirable gaze, Stapleton leaned forwards in her chair, her arm extending to reach up to her "project's" jaw line. John held his breath, observing the scientist preparing to make physical contact for…was this the first time? When her fingertip grazed the sharp bone, Sherlock Holmes flinched, and whirled to face her, staring wide-eyed in, perhaps, _fear_.

"It's alright, I'm a friend,_ remember_? We've met before."

When the man on the slab refused to answer, Frankland cleared his throat, "Perhaps he doesn't remember? Could be another isochronal error."

The being only seemed to ignore Stapleton and Frankland, as his eyes vibrated across everything and everyone in the room, desperately searching.  
Searching for what? That's when his silver, shattered orbs landed on John's own of deep indigo. They settled and John broke into a full on stare. Both simply peering at each other; John's expression confused, and Sherlock's – frightened? Pleading? Begging?

Stapleton had obviously caught sight of this, and narrowed her own eyes at the being, before turned to glare at John, "Oh, no. He remembers just fine."

John barely heard her words – he just continued to watch the man, sitting dead still on hard metal, still soaking wet from his crystallized, and blue tank, nearly glowing with the amount of voltage he had been in contact with.

"_John_."

John's jumped in place, startled by the sudden exclamation, and he turned his eyes onto Dr. Stapleton, smiling smugly his way.  
She was out of her seat, holding the sheet of her paper firmly in both hands, just in front of her knees.

John swallowed, "Y-yes?" He cursed himself for stuttering.

Stapleton released one hand from the edge of the paper and gestured to the chair, "Please. _Sit_."

John couldn't exactly refuse, could he? He swallowed once more, thicker this time, and slowly swayed toward the woman, eyeing both the metal chair and the cold eyes gazing from an identically colored metal slab. She handed him the white sheet of paper in her hand, so white it was blinding to John, and he slowly took it from her.

"_Questions_, John. Ask him these for me, and be gentle."

John peered down at the typed sentences.  
_What's your favorite color?  
How do you feel right now?  
How many people are in this room?  
_His eyes narrowed.

"Why me?" He stammered, clearing his throat awkwardly under the current amount of pressure, all while feeling the brilliantly colored, and pleading eyes burning into his back.

Stapleton smiled warily, and took a glance over John's shoulder at the project.  
"Because he seems to take more to you than anyone else here. I noticed it before too."

John bit his cheek, wanting to protest, but holding back due to his own adrenaline, the thrill pumping through his veins.  
He caught a glimpse of Mycroft squirming in the back of the room, mostly hidden by the darkness of the laboratory's shadows – anxiousness.

John sighed, held tighter to the paper, nodded his head once, firmly, and took a seat in the rock hard, metal chair. Then he was face to face with the being, the project, the experiment, the specimen – the man. _Brilliant_, even still.

Sherlock Holmes cocked his head to side, faintly, appearing in close resemblance to that of a confused dog, and John couldn't help but smile.

"Hello."

The retired army doctor's voice seemed to almost jog the being in his place, causing him to flinch at the sudden sound, directed directly at him. John waited, but wasn't surprised when Sherlock failed to respond – just continued to stare, making John feel as though he was being pulled apart, to reveal each and every secret he held most dear.

"My name is John Watson." He tried, and this got him a result.

"What is my name?" The deep baritone sounded, and shook John in his seat. He bit his lip at the question, inhaled sharply, and glanced over at Stapleton, now occupying John's job of 'watching'. She nodded once, informing him it was okay to answer.

"Well – um – your name is Sherlock Holmes."

The eyes dropped to the floor, and off of John, simply appearing empty now. No thought, no emotion, no feeling. Just a blank slate. John readjusted himself in the chair, just as Sherlock looked up again.

"John Watson." The voice was endearing, at the least, especially saying his name, "Were you in the war?"

John thought he might have squeaked out loud when the being asked him his next question.  
Wait – wasn't John the one who was supposed to be asking the questions? When did this turn around on him?

Stapleton stiffened across the room, and Mycroft seemed instantly intrigued.  
John didn't even answer the project – he didn't need to.

"You limp slightly when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair, you merely stand as if forgetting about it, so that must mean it's at least partly psychosomatic. If it's psychosomatic then something traumatic was the cause of it. Judging by the tan, the dog tags around your neck, and the idea of trauma, you were obviously in the war. Am I correct?"

John swallowed the knot in his throat; eager to rid himself of it. He took a deep breath, completely ignored those surrounding him, and merely zeroed in on Sherlock Holmes. "Yes. Yes, you are. Absolutely correct, that is."

The being smiled._ Smiled_.  
John felt his heart stop in the moment.  
It was heartbreaking. To see this man, who had been through so much and didn't even know it yet, _smile._

"Precisely. I knew so – _for a fact_. The details are all right there." Sherlock Holmes responded confidently.

John arched a brow, and grinned widely, "Then why did you ask me in the first place? If you already knew so well?"

The project shrugged, "Would you like me to be completely honest?"

John narrowed his eyes and scoffed, "Yes, of course."

Sherlock dropped his eyes, but only for a mere second, "I wanted to impress you."

John chuckled at that and nodded, "I'd consider myself impressed. Thank you."

Then they were both grinning, and for once John Watson didn't feel so alone, and he was sue the man before him didn't as well.  
His eyes met the paper again, eyeing the printed, bold, black letters forming mundane questions.

Suddenly, they didn't seem so important.

* * *

"Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or frightened but go on in fortune or misfortune at their own private pace, like a clock during a thunderstorm."  
-Robert Louis Stevenson


	7. Bottom End Power

**_A/N_: Wow. It has been a month since I updated this. That's really unforgivable of me, and I am so very sorry.**  
**But here you are! I left you off on a cliffhanger! Thank you to my constant reviewers! (You know who you are)**  
**And if you haven't reviewed please please please do! They inspire and give me encouragement! :3 Thanks again!**  
**Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 6: Bottom End Power_  
(Bottom end power Mimimum mainspring power. _  
_Power delivered at the "almost totally unwound state" of a mainsping's power curve.)_

* * *

John was staring directly into those cold, calculating eyes. Pale blue, flecks of gold, silver and cobalt, and mystifying amounts glaucous. It was like looking into a galaxy, a bursting supernova, and a flaming planet; cold and freezing and burning all at the same time; contrasted heavily by the white skin, so pale it was electrifying.

"John."

The stern voice has the retired army doctor whirling around in apprehension, eyes wide, realizing he had been doing nothing but staring blankly – failing to ask the questions he was really supposed to be asking. John took in the site of Stapleton – so dull, so boring after having just gazed at the being sitting on the metal slab in front of him. She was stood utterly and eerily still, eyes narrowed suspiciously, hip out to the side, her white coat nearly blinding at first glance.

John shook himself out of his vacant state and then nodded profusely, "Right, right – sorry. Yes, okay."

Stapleton arched a brow and then indiscreetly flicked her head in the "project's" direction. John swallowed, and slowly turned right back around, eyes taking in the man's position once more. He seemed confused, head tilted in severe caution, as though if John were to make any sudden movements, the figure would flee.

"Sherlock," John began nervously, blinking twice before readjusting himself in the hard, metal chair and looking down at the file of questions he had originally been given. He yearned just to have his own conversation with the being – not ask these ridiculous questions. But he shrugged it off; at least he still got to talk with him anyways. "How do you feel this very moment?"

The figure flinched in distrust, eyes seemingly vibrating over the entire laboratory before they landed on John's subtle smile. "Emotionally or physically?" The deep baritone replied, and John raised both eyebrows, glancing quickly at Stapleton's eager stance before continuing.

"Both."

The project, _Sherlock_, stiffened but still nodded his understanding. He barely moved an inch upon breaking out into an explanation, eyes winding down over every single presence in the room, occasionally focusing in on Mycroft, glaring at Stapleton and glowering at Frankland.

"Physically? My eyes burn and my arms ache immensely," He paused before carrying on, twitching noticeably when both Stapleton and Frankland hurried to write down the side effects he was experiencing. John merely listened. "I feel as though my head has been thrown onto a concrete wall over and over again, and my chest is terribly heavy."

John cringed at the description – his head, having been altered and toyed with, and his chest, bearing an incredibly large amount of various metals. With a glance over his shoulder, John saw that Stapleton and Frankland were nodding vigorously, and continuing with their notes.

"Emotionally?" Sherlock paused and John instantly stilled, "I feel_ nothing._"

The retired army doctor didn't expect to witness the scientist, now striding up to his position, smirk at the "project's" statement.

"Very good,_ Chezza_," Stapleton began, seemingly confusing Sherlock with the nickname, "This is normal, considering the procedure you went through."

The figure, still sitting elegantly before John, glared at the woman and narrowed both eyes in discontent, "I was talking to John Watson."

Stapleton immediately flushed, nodded minutely, and silenced herself upon standing beside where John was sat. Dr. Watson held his breath, forcing back a chuckle, and turned, once more, to gaze fixatedly on the mystifying being.

"Right, Sherlock. So, what is it that you are thinking about at this current moment?"  
John shifted uncomfortably, and watched the "project" stiffen and clear his throat.

"I am suspicious and confused," He began, "I want to know why I am here, where I am, what you want from me, and why I can't remember a single thing from before the moment I first opened my eyes."

John inhaled deeply, and turned to catch a glimpse of Stapleton's nervous expression – she didn't seem too keen on giving him the answers, so John decidedly moved on.

"In due time, _Mr. Holmes._" John felt horrible saying it; he wanted to tell this man everything that had happened to him, about his memory, and why he was in this laboratory answering John's ridiculous, but required, questions.

"I see. How very enigmatic." The man spoke the words sarcastically and shifted as though he was utterly aggravated upon not knowing the true facts behind his current position.

John felt a subtle tap on his shoulder and caught Stapleton's stern eyes, rushing him forward with the needed questions – once again.  
_So pushy_, John growled to himself.

Before John could speak, however, the being had input.

"I have a question now, Dr. Watson. What is this procedure I have been said to have went through?"

John froze, nervously clearing his throat as the man on the metal slab observed him calculatingly. "Well, uh –"

"Mr. Holmes, you do not need to know this information, please do not ask again."  
Dr. Stapleton was so very straightforward, so firm and rather harsh, that John was spinning to face her in his seat.

Sherlock Holmes merely eyed the woman in utter disgust, "Oh _really_?"

Stapleton smirked, and John instantly fell into a whirl of shocked disposition, "Yes, _Chezza_, really," The scientist was now smiling rather mockingly at the project, and her eyes flashed in greed as she continued on with her scolding, "You are merely an object in a trial – an object of which I have complete, and utter, power over. So, it will, in fact, do you well to listen to me."

The man on the metallic surface seemed frozen by hurt disbelief, and John – John was merely angry. Angry at the way this woman was jabbing at the newly revived being, of whom was clueless to what he was and what he was good for. How could her words possibly make him feel now? John wanted to intervene, but it was impossible.

Stapleton had merely continued again. "I'll have you know, Mr. Holmes, that you are _no one_ at this point in time – _nobody_. This version of yourself is merely for _knowledge_ – for intellect."

The project's head perked at this and his eyes narrowed, his expression showing no form of defeat. "This version?" He paused, "And the other?"

Stapleton merely grinned – a frankly terrifying grin, at that.

The figure in front of John decided to move on, "What if I choose not to embellish you with the knowledge and intellect you require?"

The woman's smile faded and she cleared her throat in apprehension, "I regret to inform you this will not be a problem for us."

John stiffened, glanced at Stapleton in anguish and inwardly shook his head – she was a façade; _did she care for her own science project at all?_

"How so?" Sherlock snapped, his eyes focused on the dreadful woman before him.

Stapleton leaned forward, a smirk lacing her lips as she drew closer and closer to the slender figure sat atop the metal surface, shimmering a hue of blue in the artificial laboratory light. He flinched upon her proximity, shifting his position slightly in order to scoot farther back on the slab.

"I can just_ turn you off_."

Before John could even react to the brutal comment, and before Sherlock really had the time to fathom it, another voice, deeper, was echoing in the gray laboratory.

"Enough!" Footsteps drew nearer and a hand gripped onto Stapleton's forearm, lunging her backwards and away from her project. Mycroft was looming just beside John, the woman in his grasp, staring her down with eyes that posed an inevitable threat. "I will not stand for this!"

Stapleton only smiled and shook her head in amusement, placing her own palm on top of Mycroft's white-knuckled hand.  
"You have no choice, I'm afraid." She informed him and the government official drew back in stunned silence, his lips pursing in utter disgust.

John blinked, and swallowed – irritated internally by their tension – then slowly twisted to catch a glimpse of the figure this was really about. He was sat entirely still, eyes drawn to the tiled floor beneath him, skin pale and shimmering in the dew of his blue liquid capsule, hair still damp and wavy, hanging just atop his forehead. As the argument between Stapleton and Mycroft continued, John felt he was falling into a pit of rage. The man had just woken up – and what had he been woken to witness? Fighting, brawling, ugly words snapped his way about him and what he was – of which he didn't even know.

So, before John even knew what he was doing, he reached forward and placed a warm hand on the small, pale and slender one, which had been resting limp in the being's lap. The project's eyes shot open wide and he whirled to face John, an expression of complete and utter surprise falling over his brilliant features. He didn't move, didn't react – didn't do anything. But he also didn't move his hand away.

_He needs the comfort_, John told himself. Psychical comfort, so that he would know that he was still, at least partially, human; still a free man – even if the fact wasn't entirely believable. The figure on the metal slab just kept staring, calculating John's movements, what he was currently doing, as if the man was plagued by disbelief from just having been touched in a gentle, reassuring manner. John tried a smile, but it didn't have much effect.

Until, the project talked. "You're warm."

John's head shot up in confusion, and Stapleton finally turned around to witness the exchange had, her face contorting, slightly, into an expression of yearning, and envy. Mycroft was simply bemused, and rather, bewildered by the interaction.

"No, John. You mustn't." Stapleton reached over and slapped John's hand away, leaving the retired army doctor in a strong state of puzzlement. John was rather irritated by Stapleton's touch, and he quickly drew back his hand, feeling as though he should shake it around a bit, after her brief tap, or wipe it on his clothes. But he didn't.

"Why not? He looked rather frightened, so I comforted him." John shrugged.

"We risk a chance of _over-heating_, Dr. Watson. And besides," Stapleton scoffed disbelievingly, "He doesn't need _comfort_," She leaned closer to the appalled man, now whispering in his ear so that the being conversed about wouldn't hear. "He's part machine, he has no memories of reassurance or sympathy, and he doesn't have a proper heart – he doesn't _feel_ things that way."

John was mortified – mortified that the woman before him, who he worked for of all people, could talk that way about a human being – well, partial human being. He was still a '_somebody_' and somebody, no matter what they are made of or look like, always needs a little comfort and offered love.

"Perhaps you could lay off the arguing then – so next time I won't have a reason to comfort him." John said the words before he could hold his tongue, and for a moment, he was utterly terrified that the scientist would use him as her next lab rat or something. But she didn't seem to notice. She merely smiled, chuckled slightly to herself, and tapped the small sheet in front of John; her finger nails clicking against the metal of the clipboard.

"Shall we continue the questions then?"

xXx

The questions never did continue. Sherlock Holmes didn't answer any more. John asked, John pleaded, really, that he somehow respond, but the being wouldn't have it. He simply gazed blankly at the floor, hands folded in his lap, and his mind elsewhere. Occasionally he glanced up, took in the sight of Stapleton or Mycroft, and then gazed longingly John's way, but after the little quarrel, he didn't speak again. And it stayed that way, silent and unsuccessful, until Stapleton let out a long, frustrated sigh, shaking her head and jumping to her feet.

"Turn him off, Bob." She commanded, sending Frankland in a quick motion of pressing buttons and jabbing the console to the machine capsule. Stapleton merely kept walking, never once looking back at the being, Mycroft, or John – simply heading out the laboratory doors with a steady, elongated stride. And then the project's brother had let out a sharp huff, narrowed his eyes at John, sent him a quick – perhaps grateful – nod and left as well, following Stapleton's long-gone presence. John gulped, watched the doors close in finality, glanced at Frankland still pressing buttons, and then turned to the figure on the metal slab.

"I'm sorry," He found himself saying, much to his own surprise. He observed as the project lifted his head confidently, and gazed thoroughly into his cobalt eyes. The man, Sherlock Holmes, seemed confused, perplexed with the fact that John was attempting to comfort him yet again. John cleared his throat, listening as the zap of electric charge flickered to life beneath the surface of the metal Sherlock sat firmly atop. The being smiled wearily, and nodded, catching the retired army doctor a bit off guard. His eyes then fluttered slightly, and his beam wavered, before he ultimately began falling slowly backwards.

"Hold his head, John. We don't need a concussion." Frankland's voice was horrid and high-pitched compared to that of the figure before him, but John listened, carefully moving forward to place his palm beneath the layers of silky, dark brown curls. On his way down, the project merely forced open his eyes to watch John calculatingly, brow furrowed slightly in suspicion. John set the man flat along the top of the metallic, shimmering surface, and that's when the being turned to him, a look of peace and admiration in the depths of his glaucous eyes.

"I wish we had met in another life, Dr. Watson."

The words mesmerized John, but before he could respond, the project had doomed himself to another inevitable, operated slumber.

* * *

_"Memories are the key not to the past, but to the future."_  
Corrie Ten Boom

* * *

"Memories, John." Stapleton snapped the next morning.

John was dead tired, feeling gloomy from the lack of adrenaline. He honestly wanted to free himself from the clutches of this woman, but feared he was already in too deep. So he would stay – he would stay for Sherlock Holmes, the tormented man who was said to be nothing but a machine. But now, as Stapleton spoke, it merely came out as words of pure torture, every syllable, every noun, every adjective sounding dull and worthless – perfectly putrid, in John's mind. He despised this woman – he had seen her true self: a monster hidden away in the white coat of a simple scientist. With every sentence, John was merely convinced she spoke unfathomable lies.

"Sorry, what?" He replied, throwing a hand up to clutch the bridge of his nose.

Stapleton raised an eyebrow in suspicion, placing ne hand on her hip as she awaited his more accurate response.  
"You alright?" She asked him genuinely.

_As if you care_, he thought to himself.

"Yeah, yeah. Fine. Sorry, what were you saying?" He blinked rapidly to clear his mind from the lack of sleep, and turned his full attention on the woman before him. She was, of course, his boss – he had to still stay tentative.

"I mentioned memories," She began, beckoning John over to the sleeping body of an impossible man, still appearing peaceful in the water's bright, blue light. John was still utterly bewildered by his forthcoming – the fact that he had actually been revived. "It is defined as the faculty by which the mind stores and remembers information," John arched a brow as she turned to him, smirking widely, "And today, we are going to induce Chezza's."

John was awake.  
John was more than awake.  
But he was also speechless.

"Frankland," Dr. Stapleton called out to the man across the lab, and he strode forward, a small chip in hand, which he then handed to the scientist in charge, grinning proudly. Stapleton whirled to face John once more, chip in the air as though it was some brilliant achievement, some sort of trophy she had earned in a scuffle. "Such a beauty, isn't it?"

John narrowed his eyes as the little black chip, rectangular and densely compacted. Scribbled atop its front were the initials, _"SH"._

"Sure, yeah." John replied awkwardly, nodding his head to the statement and Stapleton's beaming expression.

"Frankland!" She ordered again, and the same man came running – grasping the memory chip – then jogged over to the computer connecting the project to the machine capsule. Buttons flickered in magnificent hues as he plugged the chip into its hard drive, and John merely observed (as always), observing Frankland with keen interest and some sort of defined hatred.

What would he be like?  
Sherlock Holmes would be Sherlock Holmes – the Sherlock Holmes he was before he died.  
Somehow, John felt as though this was going to take a horrid turn.

In one quick movement, the system was started up and the volts in the liquid capsule were shut off.  
The metal slab was raised, the figure along with it – once again shimmering like gloss in the artificial lighting.

John watched as the eyes twitched and readied themselves to open.  
John watched as the nose flinched in curiosity upon smelling new smells.  
As a finger lifted gently off the metallic surface.  
As the wavy hair swayed in contentment.  
As the body lifted to observe its surroundings.  
And then he watched as the entire system went to hell.

* * *

_"Work is a necessity for man. Man invented the alarm clock."  
_Pablo Picasso


	8. Top End Power

_**A/N: I know. Terribly sorry, its been so bloody long and I loathe myself for it. **_  
_**I've had exams all week and will next week as well - but for the record, I am rather proud of this one. :3**_  
_**It may be a bit shorter. xC **_

_**Please review to let me know you are still with me!  
Thanks everyone for all the love! *hugs!***_

* * *

Chapter 7: Top End Power  
_(A fully wound mainspring.)_

* * *

He had started off cool, and contained – his eyes had flickered in curiosity, rightfully opening to the world he most likely recognized. Then his brow had furrowed, his pupils had contracted, his breathing had quickened and his fingers began to tremble. And John immediately knew something wasn't right.

Stapleton observed from only a few feet away, smiling hesitantly down at the reawakened man, hands in the air as a silent surrender. Frankland stood by the machine, ready for any sign of danger or destructive behavior. John merely stood off to the right, a good enough distance away, where he could take witness to the memory-induced Sherlock Holmes, yet still give him his much-needed space.

The dark curls lifted slightly, before the "project's" entire face contorted into an expression of pain; one that caused Stapleton to step forward, feigning concern.

"Sherlock." She said his name softly, ever so quietly, carefully weaseling her way through the situation, like the sneaky manipulator she was. Sherlock's pale eyes narrowed as he took in the sight of the scientist before him, and then widened, soon frantically vibrating over every single living soul in the room. His chest was rising and falling in an abnormal pace, and his head was beginning to lift from the safety of the flat metal slab.  
Stapleton shook her head, and reached out with a hand, "No, no. Stay down."

Restraint? How did she possibly think that was a good idea?

The man swallowed, and blinked, unexplainably lost in his own thoughts, his own past, his own memories. He inched upward at an unsteady rate, wincing and grimacing and cringing, most likely due to the new feeling of machinery connecting his bones, muscles and tissue. His bottom lip began to quiver as he took in his every setting, dissecting the state he was in and the reason for the eyes upon him and the agony.

"What's going on?" The words were nearly inaudible, breathless and lacking any sort of effort or drive. He seemed to be out of it, delirious and physically unable to demonstrate what he was feeling, thinking.

John fell angry upon witnessing the man's distraught expression – only able to glare at Stapleton for what pain she had caused her so-called project. Said woman leaned forward, her palm extending to gently lay across the top of Sherlock's wrist, to which he only jerked away from, shaking in place, consumed by a fear only known to his own mind.

"Don't _touch_ me!" The order was hardly firm, but Stapleton backed away in suspicion, taking the moment to simply eye the man coming to.

Then the being tried to get to his _feet._

A leg, and then another, folded over the slab of metal – simply dangling expectantly on the edge. Sherlock Holmes was beginning to sweat; the salty dread mixing with the cool blue water of which he spent most of his time in.

His brilliant features were a canvas of painful hues – shades of terror the only tints darkening his white complexion. The lab coats were flying now, all the scientists crowding over, towards the being, whom was preparing to flee after he managed to conquer the unspeakable amounts of pain coursing through his every limb. Nimble, cold hands reached for Sherlock's arms, his chest, his waist, forcing him back down onto the frigid surface, and whispering words of comfort, telling him _'it'll be okay_' and _'just don't move'_.

The project in question was having none of it. He pushed the first scientist off of him, shoving the man to the floor with an unexplainable wave of brute strength. Stapleton jumped forward then, placing her hand along the side of Sherlock's jaw.

"Sherlock, stay calm, stay calm." She murmured to him, but he merely shook his head frantically, knocking her to the side with less force than he had only previously demonstrated. More lab coats surrounded the man, and he punched, kicked, shrieked and threw them all to the side, shoving them from his position on the slab.

_"Get away from me!"_

John swallowed, merely struggling to take in the circumstances taking place before his eyes – eager to help, but fearful of frightening an already terrified man.

Stapleton was sprinting over to Frankland now, commanding him to '_turn the damn thing off_', of which he was straining to fulfill.  
The being on the metallic surface was still shaking from side to side, snapping at anyone who got close, expression burning in a fiery rage lit by the flames of horror. Everyone was yelling, shrieking, telling the petrified man to calm down, of which he was totally ignorant.

His eyes fixed wildly over every mere detail contained in the single laboratory, his irises burning with knowledge he suddenly had back, and the pupils dilating at the fact that he was alive and in a stupendous amount of pain. It was evident on his expression – lids struggling to stay open, hands and fingers trembling, hair slick with perspiration, and posture woven into that of a frazzled, panicked state.

How was it? John couldn't imagine – and he didn't blame the poor man for acting this way. He had died, he had known he was dying, he had gone through the pain, and god knows what he witnessed before succumbing to the clutches of death – only to be reawakened without a clue as to why, or how? Body shivering in tremendous amounts of pain, and anguish; a dreadful metallic feeling in every movement made.

What was Sherlock Holmes thinking – what was he experiencing?

John's concern and intrigue was only enhanced as the "project's" eyes landed on that of a dark figure lurking in the shadows of the laboratory's gray walls. John turned to peer at the same being, all color washing away from his every feature upon realizing it was Mycroft Holmes – his eyes fixated on those of his brother's. The retired army doctor held his breath, watching the moment play out – ignoring the fact that Frankland and Stapleton did the same.  
Sherlock was suddenly very still, frozen and frigid, merely gazing upon the man in the darkness.

But then he screamed and it was quite a deafening yelp for liberation.  
"Mycroft!" The deep baritone voice choked out, so much desperation and defeat hidden in the single name shouted across the room.

John observed Mycroft then – he was hunched over, ready to flee, eyes downcast, posture rigid and tense.  
"Mycroft, please! Mycroft!" The calls for help continued and the man himself did eventually leave, turning so very swiftly John almost missed him sprint out the doors, back turned on his sibling, of whom was still struggling to free himself from the scientists and the bonds they had now fetched to restrain him.

John knew, at that moment, that he had to, in fact, take some sort of action – he couldn't just watch anymore. When Stapleton whirled once more to command Frankland to press the right buttons, John dashed forward, hands raised, heading straight for the white lab coats currently surrounding the panicked figure.

"Move, _move!"_ John ordered, shoving the onlookers to the side, "Out the way!"  
He grabbed scientists by the back of their coats, yanking them elsewhere, and trudging towards the dismantled "project".

They all took several steps back as Stapleton followed John's quick movement toward Sherlock, spitting out words John only ignored, "Watson, what do you think you're doing?"

Once most of the scientists were out of the way, John was directly in front of the figure, who had now hidden his face in his folded arms, lying back on the metal slab, and locked in a fetal position – still shaking like a leaf. Stapleton was quickly behind him and in one swift spin, he was glaring down at her, eyes narrowed in outrage.

_"Go!"_ He spat as her expression twisted incredulously, "I can calm him down! _Please_!" John's desperate plead was what sent the head scientist stepping backward, motioning for Frankland to stop all he was doing.

The whole lab group separated to give John an infinite amount of space, much to his relief. John got closer to the heap on the metal slab, drenched in both freezing cold water and salty sweat. He reached out gently and placed a warm hand on Sherlock's shoulder, hoping it would remind the man it was he who had comforted him when he was without his memories. He hoped the feeling of his hand was enough to trigger the figure's muscle memory, his recognition.

The shaking ceased upon John's touch, but not another movement was encouraged, so John inched nearer, bringing himself just in front of where the man's arms covered his face on the metallic surface.

He sighed softly and began to whisper, "Sherlock, you don't know me – really. My name's John Watson," He swallowed, suddenly oddly nervous upon being heard by such a man as the real Sherlock Holmes, "I just want you to focus on my voice, all right?"

A small tremble ensued from Sherlock's head and John guessed it was supposed to be a nod. John glanced up at a distant Stapleton, and cleared his throat – this time, he didn't care whether he was supposed to say anything or not.

He scooted closer to the frightened heap and gulped thickly, "You're in Dartmoor, in a lab at the Baskerville testing site."

The body before him flinched at that and a small mumble emanated from within the tangle of protective limbs.

"What?" John cocked his head slightly, in order to hear better, glad that the man was attempting to speak.

A stutter, still clearer than before; "_W-why?"_

John dropped his eyes, and brought his comforting hand from Sherlock's shoulder to his forearm, pressing softly as if psychically trying to let him know that he could drop his barrier and still be safe. The man didn't budge. John was reluctant to reveal his own current state to him, seeing how frantic he already was. So the army doctor merely swallowed and nodded slowly.

"I just need you to calm down right now, Sherlock. _Okay?_ Can you do that for me?"

Sherlock Holmes gently lifted an arm away from his face, taking in the full construct of John Watson's being, as though determining if he could be trusted or not. He then blinked those fantastic, multicolored eyes, glanced at John's hand, and then back at the man himself, once more.

"Okay."

John's entire body sagged in relief, and he gently squeezed the fragile forearm of the puzzled figure before him. All was quiet still – the scientists remained divided from the two of them, much to John's delight. He wanted the lab coats to keep away – John wanted to be there for the so-called project before him.

He didn't deserve this. This treatment, this entire experiment; John could tell. Sherlock Holmes was a great man – and perhaps, even a good one.

"Sherlock." The nervous voice sounded from behind John's hunched shoulders, and Stapleton was soon stepping forward again, eager to soothe her creation. John stiffened, and even Sherlock noticed how her presence was unwelcomed.

His eyes narrowed in suspicion and he removed the second arm blocking his shadowed features, in order to keep it from obstructing his overall vision. "Jacqui?"

John noted the questioning tone and quietly, so as not to stir Sherlock, slid to the side some; Stapleton was in clear view.

"Sherlock, _yes._ It's _me._" She smiled innocently at his cautious outlook upon her, but when she drew closer the man flinched away violently, and once more John hushed him comfortingly – careful not to baby him, but eager enough to loosen his built-up tension.

Stapleton immediately took a step back and appeared anxious to apologize, but John merely fixed her with a glare. This woman was the reason for all this being's torture, his terror, and his panicked state of mind. How could she possibly feel as though she could fix the situation now?

She had attacked Sherlock in a metaphor.  
She had taken a beautiful clock and smashed it to bits on a cold, tile floor.  
She had wielded a hammer to give it a couple good whacks, to make sure it was good and broken, and then, out of guilt, she had put it back together again – adjusting every wire, gear, and contusion.  
Soon, it had begun to tick – but the tick was faulty, less then perfect.  
Immaculate on the outside, and still broken on the inside.  
Simple clockwork destroyed and put back together once more by a mad, lost state of mind.

_"I'm not safe."_

The three mumbled words brought John back to reality, and he turned to focus all his attention on Sherlock, who had curled into himself yet again. John's brows furrowed as he gently softened the weight of his comforting hand, still resting on the man's trembling shoulder.  
"Sherlock?" He whispered softly, careful not to scare his patient into silence.

_"I thought I was safe – always. But then something happened."_ The words were barely audible, but John caught them and fell utterly confused.

Stapleton took a step forward, arms crossed over her chest in suspicion, "What's he on about?"  
She attempted to get closer, but John tensed and she seemed to take the hint.

"Probably just another error, Jacqui." Frankland's irritable tone spat out amongst the crowd, and John heated in enclosed rage.  
He shook his head to calm his own temper and then turned back to Sherlock, eyes soft and encouraging.

_"How did I not see – I was blind. So very blind._" The man froze, blinked repeatedly and then gazed directly into John's own darkened cobalt eyes. John swallowed the knot forming deep in his throat, and struggled to contain his concern upon staring wide-eyed at the porcelain figure before him. _"John Watson."_  
His lips moved with the words, but they were nothing more than a breathless grunt, barely even carrying to John's eager hears, "_I died. I'm dead."_

John heard it loud and clear that time – manic panic.  
Pure dread, alarm, fear, terror.  
The man was fading into the shock of his reality and John had no idea what he could do to calm him.

"I was _dead, I died!_ I was _dead!"_

The phrase continued like a mantra – over and over and over again. It was repetitive and broken, like that of a frozen record disc, fidgeting vigorously on its stand. John's mind was spinning with chaotic noise – Stapleton was screeching for Frankland to flip the switch, flip the switch, flip the switch. A machine – in their eyes he was a malfunctioning machine of whom they had no control over. Something hadn't gone right and they were outraged.

John was well back now, pushed aside, shoved away from his position of noble comfort, and tossed into a corner to once again remain an observer.

No.

John rammed into the shoulder of a wider built scientist, shaking his head in rebel, shrieking for them to stop, they were scaring him, making it worse, feeding the flame of panic. John was nearly through the crowd of white – ugly, ugly, white.

So ugly – so deathly and threatening he wanted to wretch.  
Just move, just move, just move.

He pushed them away, fought against their shuffling, and utterly unnerving stares, commands, orders, and barks of hesitation, all while attempting to restrain the man on the slab once again. And finally John caught sight of him, directly in front, where he had faced him only a moment ago.

The now half-lidded eyes caught his own, which were widened and plagued with worry and rage, and John could tell the being was struggling to remain upright and alert.

He was failing. His fingers vibrated unconditionally, his multicolored irises cringing at the bright lights of the lab, skin too pale to be healthy and dampened with perspiration. He was flickering, fading, falling farther and farther into the depths of his own prison, his own hell. His mind that was transmitting so many mixed feelings, emotions, and struggling to tune them out, turn them off.

And then, just like that, he was_ gone._  
_Switched off._

John had seen it so many times already – how he fell back in defeat, eyes sliding shut into a somber expression of unseen agony, body twitching as he felt the volts and the blue water once more.

This time, however, was different.

John cared all too much.

Because he cared for the man in the tank – the machine everyone sought to show no compassion towards.  
He wanted to help him – mend him. Whether he was merely broken clockwork or not.

**-xXx-**

"Anxiety is love's greatest killer.  
It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you.  
You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic."  
_-Anais Nin_


	9. Maintaining Hook

_A/N: Wow. So sorry. _  
_That took forever. Forgive me. School will be out soon!_  
_And then I will surely have more time to update. _  
_Sorry if it's a little short, but it should be a good chapter!_

_If any of you are reading another of my fanfics,  
there may be a character you recognize in here._

_Forgive me for the angsty previous chapter. ;)  
The reviews were amazing, thank you so much!  
Please review some more! _

* * *

Chapter 8: Maintaining Hook  
_(A hook that holds a spring tight inside the main wheel of many weight drive clocks.)_

* * *

"Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye."

**-H. Jackson Brown, Jr.**

* * *

John's limp was gone.  
He hadn't thought about Afghanistan, he hadn't thought about his therapist.  
The nightmares had vanished, replaced merely with dreams of machines, and glowing controls, and white lab coats.  
He was glad for that; all of it.

But right now? He was feeling an uncontrollable swell of rage brewing inside him with the same violence he'd witnessed on the battlefield.  
He needed a way to release his anger, to release his fury. So, he chose Mycroft Holmes.

He glanced at a rather unraveled Stapleton, took notice of Frankland hunching over in the corner of the room, eyes glazed in fright, caught one more glimpse of the body under the aqua blue water, and then stormed out, driven by manic, overpowering, desperation.

Desperation for a man brought back from the dead.  
Desperation for a mind, for a soul, trapped in the confines of a metal body, a gift basket of gears and bolts and wires.

He whirled through the laboratory doors – at first, hesitant to leave said man behind, but then fully driven, persuaded by the fact that they would not reawaken him anymore tonight. He hoped the other Holmes was still in the facility, still fleeing the scene, which ultimately left his brother abandoned when he needed him most. John huffed as the anger shot through his system once more. The _coward_.

His eyes searched desperately through every hallway, every room, every crevice and corner. The blinding white paint that layered the walls surrounding him was nauseating and it took everything he had just to focus on his task at hand.

Find Mycroft Holmes, and – and what? Yell, scream, and protest? Shout, "_You conceited bastard!_" and storm away? John had no idea what his plan was, but he was determined to scold the man, determined to tell him his wrongs.

It was then, that John laid eyes on the black, fancy suit, sat hunched over in a plastic chair, in the main office of the research facility, along with a woman, of whom he recognized at Not-Anthea, seated right beside him. He instantly pushed forward, eager to speak his mind.

A few tour groups were strolling about here and there – John held back a sinister laugh as he overheard a few of the guides stating, _"We will now show you where we divulge in the details of our experiments._" He had a feeling they wouldn't be finding out the exact the whereabouts of Sherlock Holmes, or setting their eyes on him whatsoever.

He neared the sharply dressed man with ferocity, and upon reaching his slanted position, cleared his throat, and stood straight, "Are you really that superficial?"

The other brother looked up, eyes narrowed in suspicion, brow tightly drawn into a frown. John quickly observed the manner of his being, noticing the red-rimmed eyes, and the just slightly ruffled hair, causing the man's appearance to lack its crucial importance.

"I'm sorry?" He asked in a hoarse voice, seemingly genuinely confused.

John scoffed and shook his head, "Perhaps, you're just too proud to confront him. Is that it?"

Mycroft dawned upon realization and shifted in his chair, scooting back and out of his hunched position and into a more sophisticated state.  
"If you don't mind," He wasn't talking with John; his sights were fixed on the woman sitting beside him, and she quickly nodded, rising slowly to her feet and clip clopping towards the exit of the building.

Mycroft then cleared his throat and glared at the short man before him, "Dr. Watson, you know _nothing_ of the situation."

John snorted at that and crossed his arms over his torso, "Don't I?"

The _"British government's"_ eyes suddenly darkened, and he was glowering at John as a predator might fixate on the intrusion of an outcast, "No, and I suggest you not delve too deep."

John didn't back down: actually, he fell even more confident, and instantly returned the glare that was currently burning over him like a pitchfork.  
"And why's that?"

Mycroft sighed, his features softening, and leaned back in his, most likely, uncomfortable seat, "I believe you will not like what you discover."

John eyed the man in front of him wearily, and then decided on sitting in the chair beside Mycroft, wincing as the plastic slammed against him.  
They really were uncomfortable.

John crossed a leg over the opposite knee and turned to gaze at the man next to him, his expression intense, and passionate, "I know he overdosed. I know it was suicide. I know that he was lonely, and forgotten, and abandoned. And I know how that feels," John let out a shaky breath, "What more is there?"

Mycroft looked down for a moment, and then immediately regained himself once more, watching John carefully and cautiously, "John – can I call you John?"

The army doctor shrugged, so Mycroft continued, "Right then. John, you should know that I enjoy being in control. It is, evidently, both a weakness in me and a strength." He swallowed thickly, "It's driven me mad, every single day, that I was not in control."

John sat up straighter, listening intently and feeling something like pity overtaking the anger, "Mr. Holmes, you couldn't have known –"

He was interrupted by a scoff, "Oh, I could have. I _should_ have. I checked up on him everyday. He was a destructive man, I had to."  
John nodded, understanding the depth of his explanation, and Mycroft went on, "I never had an issue, not a problem, until that day. When it happened, I knew something wasn't right immediately. Something had to be wrong. My cameras had been disabled –"

_"Cameras?"_

"- and he had somehow disappeared from my watchful eye."  
Mycroft finished, seemingly quite distraught at this point, "I don't know how he did it. He had no access."

John narrowed his eyes, and tilted his head slightly to the side, both listening and observing the man attentively.

Mycroft continued earnestly, "He'd gave up trying to deactivate my cameras long ago, John. He had, eventually, gotten used to my spying."

John didn't say a word – he simply let him carry on, watching as the man's expression hardened all at once, "I drove over, more aggravated rather than worried. And I found him. In his room. Lifeless. Unmoving. Like a corpse on a slab."

John's eyes dropped, wincing in sympathy, and regret for having yelled at the man before – it may have been wrong of him to walk out, but it had to hurt.

"That's all he is now, Dr. Watson. _A corpse on a slab,_ zombified into a soulless shell. He is not my _brother._"

John's head flew upwards, taking in the sight of a slack-faced Mycroft Holmes, appearing careless and ignorant as he sat beside him.  
"But he is!" John protested, "He's got his mind, his memories!"

Mycroft shook his head vehemently, "John, my brother was not a sentimental being. So, all I ask from you is a simple request – don't give him his memories," The man sighed, "All he ever wished to have was that mind – now he's gotten what he desired."

John arched a brow, "What d'you mean?"

Mycroft grimaced and went to stand, leaving the chair to creak in objection, "John – sleep, sustenance, hydration, emotions, feelings. My brother loathed the very effort, the very thought. Spare this look-alike machine its burden, won't you?"

John swallowed as the other Holmes turned to leave, his state of being depressed and dejected, "It's not up to me."

He merely mumbled the admittance, but Mycroft heard and grunted softly, "Of course. Apologies."

And then he was gone. Just like that, he disappeared out the doors of the building, the low light of a quickly brewing dusk swarming his figure.

* * *

"Every man must decide whether he will walk in the light of creative altruism or in the darkness of destructive selfishness."

**-Martin Luther King, Jr.**

* * *

That night John's nightmares came back. But they weren't about the war. They were about a dead, unconscious, body, lying drenched in frigid water, dead, cut open, gears hanging from its insides like organs, and metal revealing itself in the slices across its artificial skin.

Sherlock Holmes' past and future was both _haunting_ him, and causing him to feel so much more _alive._

**ooo**

_**Statement given by Jacqui Stapleton at a press conference in Dartmoor, recorded by the Nunco News Corporation, and Emerson Times:**_

_(Jacqui sits before the crowd of reporters, Bob Frankland next to her, hands folded just atop the table surface.)_

**Stapleton:** I would like to reveal to the world, at this time, the very core of what I am doing at Baskerville's Testing Facility. I have revealed to you in a previous statement that, yes, we found a test subject willing to participate in the experiment. Many have asked me just how far I am choosing to go in terms of this test subject, and I can now tell you, that, yes, we have just finished building the base, the very body, of our human trial.

_(Camera flashes fill the stage; reporters are yelling and demanding answers with impatient questions.)_

**Stapleton:** I understand this may come as quite a shock, and it may also come as a confirmation to your speculations. But, which may defy some of your many beliefs and theories, I can also confirm that the first analysis was, in fact, a success.

_(A reporter steps forward, bushing a strand of loose, red hair behind her ear before grinning fondly and posing an eager question.)_

**Reporter:** Dr. Stapleton, hi. Kitty Riley.

**Stapleton:** Hello, Ms. Riley.

_(More cameras flash, but all falls silent as they await the first query.)_

**Riley:** I'd like to ask how you intend on using this test subject; are you returning him to a family, or is he merely the first experiment of many?

**Stapleton:** That's a very good question. I can inform you that the first subject we chose is a man, of whom lacks in a wide range of relatives and family. We did our research before going through with the operation, mind you; we did not simply pick blindly from a hat. The project, of whom we have called "Chezza", is doing fairly well in his first run, and hopefully he can go back, soon, to living his second chance at life.

_(The reporters share a few suspiciously curious glances, and then turn back, anxious to push on forward in the rush of new information.)_

**Riley:** And what was it like, the first time he was awakened?

_(Overall silence, Stapleton shifts uncomfortably and flicks her head at Frankland for assistance, inaudibly saying, "You take this one.")_

**Frankland:** Well, the very first trial was more about what will go wrong, as there's always room for improvement with these tests. We started up the subject, and observed its motion, its manner of speaking, and its detailed characteristics. From there, we noticed our errors, fixed them, and had more success the second round.

**Another reporter** _(steps forward, appearing quite taken back):_ And just how many times have you tested the subject's abilities and programming?

**Stapleton** _(clearing her throat):_ A total of three times, as of now.

_(Several journalists spring forward shouting accusations, and scowling, along with enraged expressions.)_

**Frankland** _(gets to his feet, staring the crowd down with a stern gaze):_ If you are all finished asking now, Stapleton will not be answering further inquiries.

**Reporter:** Were they all successful?

_(Frankland sighs and sits. Stapleton swallows thickly, thinking back to when they induced Sherlock with his memories; disappointing, that. She thought the man had more control.)_

**Stapleton:** They were all as successful as they could have been.

_(A few reporters stared back at the scientist in confusion, but said no more.)_

**Riley:** And when will you be revealing more information to the public? We're desperate to see the very machine itself.

**Stapleton** _(smirking):_ As soon as we teach it proper manners.

_(Mild chuckling emanates from the audience, filled with amused expressions.)_

_(Another, younger, reporter steps forward, eyes narrowed, brows furrowed; her golden ponytail rests on her shoulder as she glowers at the woman behind the tabletop, of whom was still grinning respectively.)_

**Reporter:** One question for you, Dr. Stapleton. Hello, the name's Celeste. Celeste Winchester.

**Stapleton** _(weary upon catching a glimpse of the journalist's disapproving glare)_: Hi, Ms. Winchester. Please, be my guest.

**Winchester:** Why "it"?

**Stapleton:** I'm sorry?

**Winchester:** Why do you refer to the man as an "it"? He is still a human being, am I correct? Or perhaps he isn't, perhaps he's an android, or a cyborg or whatever the hell the kids are calling it these days. Whether he is or not, isn't he still a member of someone's family? Doesn't he still have a heart, have feelings, have emotions?

_(Stapleton is silent, stricken slightly with the force of the girl's words, her tone heavy, menacing, and outraged.)_

**Winchester:** I'm sorry, but have you lost sight of your goal? Wasn't it you who informed us you wished for this project to reclaim members of our family, of whom we miss or cannot live without? I'm sorry, Dr. Stapleton, but I find it hard to believe you when you refer to this human being, be he man or machine, as an "it", as something that needs to be controlled and guarded.

_(Stapleton looks appalled, but the stubborn reporter seems not to care.)_

**Winchester:** I wouldn't want you working on a member of my family, for fear of those close to me being treated as inanimate objects. Can you explain yourself? Or would you simply like to give yet another statement and spill the beans as to what you're really using this poor man for?

_(Frankland glanced over at a blank-faced Stapleton, then to the reporter, her expression both hard and slack at the same time, and then got to his feet, declaring the press conference officially over.)_

**ooo**

**Comments on Nunco's Daily Board:**

_Anonymous:_

Damn! This reporter chick has some serious swag. I give her props for that one. She spoke out amongst a group of bias journalists, and she definitely won the argument. Hey, like I always say: stand up for what you believe in, even if you are standing alone.

_Danielle2724 to Anonymous:_

She does have spunk; I'll give her that. But this Stapleton lady is doing a good thing. She's also standing up for what she believes in, mind you.

_Anonymous to Danielle2724: _

HAH! In what way is she standing up for what she believes in? Sure, it's her project, but she's not even sticking to her word half the time. The Winchester chick thoroughly pointed out that she basically twisted us into following her inhumane project! How on earth does that make her a good person?

_Danielle2724 to Anonymous: _

Consider this, Anonymous: Power is no blessing in itself, except when it is used to protect the innocent. - Jonathan Swift

_Anonymous to Danielle2724: _

What? How does that even relate to the context?

_Danielle2724 to Anonymous: _

Because! She is a powerful woman but she's using that power to protect us from the truth! It can't be easy having to dig into people's bodies to turn them on again and make them tick. That could be a rather traumatizing job. Whether you want to believe it or not, she is doing this for us. She's trying to help for the progress of tomorrow.

_Anonymous to Danielle2724: _

Bullshit. She's just trying to cover her own ass.

_Danielle2724 to Anonymous: _

How can you say that? This woman is a genius!

_Anonymous to Danielle2724: _

Well, then consider this: there is no great genius without a mixture of madness. - Aristotle. And I mean that in a bad way. She's bloody insane!

_Danielle2724 to Anonymous: _

Oh yeah? What about this: true genius resides in the capacity for evaluation of uncertain, hazardous, and conflicting information. - Winston Churchill

_Gorgfangirl82 to Danielle2724 and Anonymous:_

Oh! Oh! I've got one!

It's good to shut up sometimes. - Marcel Marceau


	10. Hour Tube

_A/N: Wow, I'm sorry for the delay!_  
_Thank you for the awesome reviews, though!_

_I have actually been in London for the past week, and then I'm going to visit relatives in Germany._  
_I don't get much internet so it has also been hard to post anything, whether it's written or not. _

_Thanks for waiting, and please let me know you're all still there!_

* * *

**Chapter 9:** Hour Tube  
_(the sleeve that the hour hand fits on)_

* * *

"John?"

John had just been staring. They were blank stares; his features were utterly still, but his mind was terribly cluttered. Cluttered with questions and theories, and the full impact of the "Sherlock Holmes" suicide mystery. It all seemed suspicious in his head, as he lined the pieces up like some complex puzzle; what Sherlock said once he regained his memories, how he acted, as though physically petrified, and the story Mycroft had shared only a day ago.

But it was always the same – just when John thought he was learning more about the man in the tank, he found he was simply egging on the mystery itself.

Stapleton's voice, however, had brought him out of his distanced thoughts, and he quickly looked up to see her hovering over him, eyes slightly narrowed, expression faintly sour. He cleared his throat as she sat down, directing Frankland toward the control panel as she perched herself on a metal chair. She adjusted her figure for a more suitably comfortable position and then faced John face-on. The army doctor swallowed nervously, straightening himself out in impatient expectance.

"John," The woman beside him began, "I'd like to discuss something with you."

John's brow furrowed, and he glanced at the blue tank next to him, catching a glimpse of the way the curled hair swam in the midst of the surrounding water. "Yeah, sure." He agreed simply, and bit the inside of his cheek, awaiting terrible news; perhaps he was fired for interfering, or maybe he was going to "disappear for a while". Who the _hell_ knows with a facility like _Baskerville?_

"I would like to test _'Chezza's'_ alertness and physical drive, seeing as how he's been newly updated as of late," She reached a hand back to scratch her neck hesitantly, "I would prefer to have him stay awake for several hours, and I'm afraid I cannot stay with him for so long a time."

John blinked.

"It is your duty to work the night shift, and therefore I thought I would ask you to care for him – to watch him," She took note of John's puzzled expression and quickly restated her proposal, "Look, you don't even have to talk to him, but for some reason he seems more relaxed and controllable in your company, and I just thought –"

_"Yes."_ John confirmed, eyes fixating on the dark woman before him, hands clenched rather tightly, "Yes, I'd be happy to."

She visibly softened, and hurriedly nodded in response, thanking him in a genuine manner and rising to her feet, jogging over to Frankland's position by the control panel, eager to get things started. Her nimble, skeletal like fingers drifted over several multicolored buttons, and with a few taps, the ever-consistent whirring of the electric fields, beneath the man in the tank, came to a halt, and the surface he was stretched out upon slowly rose to the top of the glass chamber.

John watched with the same amount of awe in his expression that had been there on the very first day – the very first time he met and saw the rebirth of Sherlock Holmes. The pale complexion of the being was revealed once more, out of the blue shade of the ever-encaging swampy water, and his entire figure rose forth, eyes shut gracefully.

However, from what John could see, the man on the slab appeared to be in anguish – he seemed pained, agonized.  
It was as though the ordeal from only a day ago was still present on his features – in his mind, haunting his thoughts with impossible memories.

"How are we doing this?" John asked with one brow arched in utter curiosity.

Stapleton gestured to the machine controlling the tank's every attribute, allowing Frankland to confidently take over, as she slowly swayed toward John, her lab coat sprawling out behind her like she was some sort of brave hero. John scoffed bitterly to himself, internally shaking his head. She was far from the very thought.

"Doing what?"

John held back the irritable roll of his eyes, stifling both his frustration and his aggravation. This woman was asking for it – her mere presence angered him. She was oblivious to the impact her intellect had on the man she had transformed into a revived corpse, the man she had ruined with her_ flawed_ aspirations.

"_Please._ Don't be coy," John couldn't bite back the sarcasm, "Memories? Or is he going to be drawing a blank on me?"

Dr. Stapleton blinked, cleared her throat while dropping her eyes, and glanced back at the man on the slab, still yet to be awakened. "I've removed the chip."

John struggled to swallow the thick lump that had instantly formed in his throat, taking a moment to compose himself before posing another question, "So, what will he remember? If anything?"

The scientist licked her lips, and then quickly spun on her heel, whirling around to approach the figure she referred to as her _"project"_, much to John's utter outrage. "Only what happened the last time we waked him – your questions, and our little conversation."

John winced in apprehension, and thought back, clenching his fists, desperately sorry for the man currently drenched in blue droplets before him.

_"__You are merely an object in a trial – an object of which I have complete, and utter, power over. So, it will, in fact, do you well to listen to me."  
__"__I'll have you know, Mr. Holmes, that you are no one at this point in time – nobody. This version of yourself is merely for knowledge – for intellect."_

With a dismissive wave of his hand, John fell back in his chair, _hard._ Stapleton sent him a firm nod and returned to the set-up of immaculately placed controls, glistening and flaring in the artificial light of the lab. He watched as she pulled a lever, and slammed her thumb down on a touchpad, only releasing when she heard a swift click of gears, and a solid sound of recognition.

John sighed, closed his eyes, and sat for a moment, merely listening to the very aura he currently dwelled in.

The shuffling of lab coats._ Breathe in, breathe out._  
The sound of a door closing; again, and again, and again. _Breathe in, breathe out._  
The buzzing of a waking machine, emanating from the soft trickle of ever-moving blue water. _Breathe in, breathe out._  
A deep baritone voice carefully uttering his name:_ "Dr. Watson."_

John lost his breath.

* * *

_"Surrealism had a great effect on me because then I realised that the imagery in my mind wasn't insanity.  
Surrealism to me is reality."  
_-John Lennon

* * *

His eyes opened at an alarming pace and he was gifted with a nearly vacant room. The control panel was left untouched now, and not one scientist was in his midst – not that the fact wasn't relieving. The only other life form presently active in the very vicinity of the lab was the beautiful man on the grey, dull slab; his mystifying, supernova-bright eyes were shining, their color still as unidentifiable as ever. John found himself in a trance. It seemed Stapleton had decided to leave the two of them utterly alone; perhaps she realized her presence was unwanted, undesirable. The snake, apparently, had better things to do.

"Mr. Holmes."

John exhaled; unaware of the fact that he hadn't taken another breath since the moment he laid eyes on a rather_ wide-awake_ Sherlock, yet again.

"Weren't there," Sherlock paused, blinking in confusion, "more of you?"

John grimaced at the accusation, "The others are nothing like me. And I'm _nothing_ like them." He felt the need to clarify for the newly awakened man on the slab, eyes narrowing in anguish, "They're horrid – a bunch of no-brained _pillocks."_

The man laughed a rather deep laugh, that sounded quite hoarse in comparison to his normal tone of voice, but John didn't blame him. He had been dead. The dead don't laugh. At least not frequently. And he couldn't care less anyway – the sound of his amusement was comforting, and John felt as though every time he made the man chuckle, he was doing a good thing, that perhaps he was removing a sin from his list of flawed behavior and replacing it with a mark of pure innocence, rewarded for having given sincere aid to a man in need.

"Do I have longer this time?"

The question caught John off guard, seeing as how he had been lost in thought, merely gazing blindly at the intricately designed irises of Sherlock Holmes' eyes. "Sorry, what?"

Sherlock cleared his throat nervously, and looked down, his head lolling to the side as he was still lying flat on his back on the cold metal slab, "Can I stay awake for longer this time?"

John swallowed, cringing at the thought of Sherlock believing John was in control of the very situation, when _really_, he felt just as trapped as the man himself. "I think so."

Sherlock nodded, short and quick, barely conveying any sort of emotion, "Good." He then lifted his head, dragging his torso upwards so he could gaze thoroughly at John's position in the hard, plastic chair, "I enjoy," He paused and began again, "I enjoy talking to you."

John was frozen with disbelief. How could Stapleton ever even think the very words she had used to describe him not long ago?  
_"He doesn't need comfort. He's part machine, he has no memories of reassurance or sympathy, and he doesn't have a proper heart – he doesn't feel things that way." _The woman truly was brainless. She was ignorant to the truth – ignorant to the possibility that she genuinely _did_ fail in her project's progression.

Because she hadn't created a simple _machine_ that appeared as though it were a _man._  
She had created a _man_ that simply appeared as though he were a _machine._

"Dr. Watson?"

John rattled his head in recognition and turned his direct attention to the being staring straight through him, multicolored eyes so very electrifying.

Sherlock smirked slightly and dropped his head, "Dr. Watson, I don't suppose you could do me favor?"

John bit the inside of his cheek in hesitation, "Depends on the favor." He watched as a single droplet of water rolled down the side of the man's cheekbone, having fallen gracefully from a lock of curly brown hair.

"Provide me with some answers."

John winced; _oh,_ how he wished he could. He wanted to – he wanted to so very desperately, but froze under the idea of Stapleton's disapproval.  
Because what if, even through her madness, what if she had a point of believing it was wrong to inform him of what he went through?  
What if it ruins him further, breaks him, shatters whatever is closest as a substitute to his heart?

John will not – cannot – hurt him.

"I'm sorry. I really am."

Sherlock nodded in understanding, shifting slightly in his position on the slab, his face contorting only briefly into some expression of pain as he did so, "I was inclined to deduce you'd say that. But I watched you think it over," He smiled a sincere, sad smile, "You thought very hard on it, in fact. Much to my genuine surprise - thank you."

John observed, speechless, swallowing hard, his throat suddenly feeling oh-so-very narrow. "You're welcome."  
His response was choked, and unattractive, but it satisfied Sherlock, as his expression softened contently.

"Now," The man on the metal surface sighed, smiling grimly, "Get up."

John blinked; once, twice, perhaps even four times. _"What?"_

Sherlock only shrugged, wincing at the anguish it brought upon him, before returning to a smug onset of features. "I want you to help me."

John arched a brow, "Help you what?"

"Help me walk."

_"Walk?"_

Sherlock bobbed his head in confirmation, "Indeed. _Walk."_

The army doctor scoffed in disbelief, leaping to his feet, not because Sherlock had commanded him to but because he was utterly shocked, "I really don't think that's a good idea."

The man narrowed his eyes, as his brow furrowed, "And _why_ not?"

John but his lip reluctantly, "B-because – well, you –"

"Am I confined to this _hard, cold slab_ for my entire stay here, Dr. Watson?"

"No, it's just," John growled, and struggled to inform the man without revealing too much delicate information, "Look, your bones are…_different_, and they may take some time getting used to. I don't want you to overdo yourself."

Sherlock snorted, and John was really quite surprised the man was so loose, so relaxed; perhaps because he was in John's presence – and_ only_ John's presence.  
"I'll be perfectly fine, _Doctor._" Sherlock grunted, "Just get me to my feet."

John bit his lip, and thought it over. How much harm could he do? He merely wanted to flop around a bit on his, most likely, activity-starved appendages.  
The army doctor cleared his throat, composed himself, and approached the man carefully.

When the being placed a single, pale hand – soft with slender fingers – onto John's shoulder, he couldn't help but shudder. The man's overall aura was surreal, and only once had John really been able to touch – and even that hadn't lasted long. His grip, gracefully ruffling the top of John's jumper, (_of which he was thankful Stapleton still allowed him to wear, seeing as how he was supposed to be on guard – he still had his gun, mind you)_ was like an electric pulse, throbbing in place as though the man held so much brilliance it was straining to get loose.

One tight uniform clad leg swooped over the edge of the metal slab, eagerly hovering just above the floor as the second mirrored it's movement. John watched cautiously, awaiting any sort of trouble, any panic, any hesitance – but the man merely sat there, gripping onto John as though he were composing himself for a giant leap forward. John inched closer, a hand wrapping itself protectively around the backside of the man's waist, framing his lower spine as a thorough support barrier.

It wasn't climbing off the surface of his tank that was the man's problem, as he had already accomplished it before; it was moving on the ground, the actual action of walking that worried John Watson.

"Alright?" The doctor asked nervously, and the man in his compassionate grasp nodded his head, in what seemed to be full-on confidence.

And, without another second to lose, Sherlock fell to the floor, sliding from the slippery metal beneath him, and onto the gray tile of the laboratory. John swallowed, still observing in concern for the man's health, his manner of being. Sherlock, however, stayed balanced; his knees were slightly bent, protruding outward as he stared at the floor, stared at his pale feet, toes wiggling against the cold ground. John took a deep breath and exhaled long and thoroughly; he wasn't sure how long he had, alone with the man that fascinated him so very much, so he figured he'd better use his time wisely.

* * *

_"Adversity has the effect of eliciting talents, which in prosperous circumstances would have lain dormant."  
_-Horace

* * *

Clearing his throat, he tightened his grip on the man's lower hipbone. "Okay, try to bring one foot forward."

Sherlock glanced up at him, bobbed his head as a confirmation, and lifted one long leg, leaning heavily on John as most of the weight of his body fell onto his opposite appendage. He winced slightly, letting out a hiss, and John could have sworn he heard the shifting of gears, the cringing emanation of metal. When he continued to wobble, even upon dropping his leg back down onto the floor, John let out a sigh and shook his head, "You're going to hurt yourself."

Sherlock abruptly shoved John to the side, and upon the sudden forceful movement, John scrambled backward, losing his hold on the man.  
The subject inched his way forward on his own, convinced he didn't need the doctor as _a crutch,_ as his_ bodyguard,_ as someone _to be sure he didn't fall_.  
He took another step and instantly lost his balance, knees crumbling below him, as they gave out and sent him cascading to the floor.

But he didn't fall. Not all the way.

The hand was back on his shoulder, another back on his waist, and he was hoisted upward, John Watson having been ready to take immediate action.  
No, he didn't need a bodyguard, or a crutch. He simply needed John Watson.

Their eyes met as Sherlock regained his steady posture, and John watched the man with intricate curiosity. So much was hidden behind those unidentifiable, multi-colored irises – each color was like a different story, a different shade resembling a different battle, a different accomplishment.

Even as this man before him, with his wired insides and his metal organs, was supposed to remain blank – no memories, emotions, or feelings – he merely seemed as though he felt more than anyone John had ever laid eyes on, as though he _was_ more.

_"I_ don't want you to hurt yourself." John mumbled audibly, expression fixed on the features of the man before him.

Sherlock swallowed and nodded, a brief yet firm nod, in which he dropped his eyes to the ground, and bit his lip. The army doctor then clutched his arm, and guided him down to sit on the metal slab, which took merely a minute, seeing as how he hadn't gotten very far in his walking.

Sherlock dropped steadily down, and John let go, taking a step back to watch desperately as the man brought both his arms to his face, placing them just beside his eyes, to rest on his temples, and below his fringe. Closing the lids to those surreal irises, Sherlock stayed utterly still, as though he were sleeping too soundly, sitting upright and uncomfortable.

John cleared his throat, puffing out a breath of air as he sat back in his plastic seat. "Sorry."

Sherlock didn't move, besides the trembling of his lips, "For what?"

John shrugged, huffing out a faint chuckle, "That it was difficult, I guess."

"Not your fault."

"No. _S'pose_ not."

They sat in silence, an eerie silence, though not awkward, and John simply observed the frail man, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.

"What did it _feel_ like?" John finally asked, growing curious upon listening and gazing at the figure before him.

Sherlock still didn't budge._ "Hmm?"_

John grunted, suddenly very nervous, "What did it _feel_ like? Walking, I mean."

Sherlock's eyes opened then, a frown present on his exotic features, as he turned to John with full attentiveness. "_Why,_ because I have solid metal posing as my skeletal system? Or the fact that the gears, serving as my organs, are currently running as though they _power_ me?"

John froze.

_No._  
How?  
No. John hadn't told him.  
Stapleton hadn't told him.  
No one had told him, _had they?_

"Oh _please,_" Sherlock responded, voice dripping with sarcasm, "Took me barely five minutes to figure it out."

John's eyes widened in disbelief, "But _how-"_

"They _are_ inside me, John. I can _feel_ it. I can _feel_ it in my system, coursing through my veins. I can taste the metal, right on the tip of my tongue." John watched as the man shivered and sighed rather stutteringly, "And I can hear the gears, John – it's like someone's _opened_ a clock, revealing its very core, and it won't leave me alone, won't stop pestering; drumming like a drum in the back of my ear."

John grimaced, and swallowed thickly, thinking over the situation with an ever-present hesitance. He couldn't imagine the feeling. He had never thought the idea over entirely – sure, he had asked Sherlock what he felt before, but the description was far from what he had only just given.

_"__Physically? My eyes burn and my arms ache immensely.  
I feel as though my head has been thrown onto a concrete wall over and over again, and my chest is terribly heavy.  
Emotionally? I feel nothing." _

John narrowed his eyes and exhaled deeply, "Why didn't you _say_ anything?"

Sherlock quirked a brow, "Sorry?"

The army doctor shrugged, "Well, if you knew after the first five minutes, why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell us you knew? Why did you ask Stapleton all those questions?"

Sherlock dropped his eyes to the ground, swallowed, and glanced up again. "Because I still don't know what happened to me – all I know is that internally, it feels as though I am a lifeless automaton. And, besides," He smiled just briefly, directing the sudden pleasantry John's way, "I had to find out who I could and could not trust."

John raised both brows, biting the inside of his cheek as he listened to Sherlock's words.

"You, _Dr. Watson,_ desired to tell me, although it would break all rules. Dr. Stapleton, well."  
He scoffed hatefully, "She decidedly wished to rub the fact in – the fact that I was _unaware."_

John found himself nodding subconsciously, and he gazed at Sherlock with intent intrigue, completely fascinated, completely lost in the surrealism of his whole manner of being.

"John Watson, of_ everyone_ in this very facility, of every _person_ in the world _for Christ's sake_, _you_ are the only one who has my utmost trust."

* * *

_"Do you know why people like violence?  
It is because it feels good.  
Humans find violence deeply satisfying.  
But remove the satisfaction, and the act becomes...hollow."_

-Alan Turing


	11. Suspension

A/N: Wow, guys please forgive me.  
I didn't have much internet for the time I was in London and Germany  
and it was hard to write when I had family over that I hadn't seen in a while.

Please forgive me with this chapter.  
*smiles* *hugs* *hides under a pillow*

Review and let me know you're still with me!  
And send me your thoughts, questions, or critiques!  
Or, if you just want to talk, I'm here for that too! :3

Bye and thank you so much to everyone who reads!

* * *

**Chapter 10:** Suspension

_(also called the suspension arm. The pendulum is attached to this part. When a user_  
_"puts the pendulum on the clock," this is what it is usually attached to.)_

* * *

_"In life, there is always that special person who shapes who you are,_  
_who helps to determine the person you become."_

_**-Molly Ringwald**_

* * *

For John, conversing with Sherlock was like a learning experience.

He said each word with a new sense of precision, each syllable in a new way, each sentence with elegant poise, and graceful pronunciation. Sometimes John found himself forgetting what the true subject was about, and merely concentrated on each single word at a time.

He'd still be repeating the way Sherlock said _'trust'_ in his mind by the time Sherlock asked him a new question, and in result he'd be clueless as to how to answer it. He still couldn't truly believe he was even conversing with the being in the first place: alone, and undisturbed.

The man moved in such a way that one would never truly conceive the idea that the very figure before them was made up of gears and mechanical wiring, that the figure before them had to be charged in order to make it through the day, that the figure before them was without his memories, was not considered human, or considered sentimental, emotional.

Sure, Sherlock acted like he wasn't touched, or mentally affected by some of the things John said, and some of the things Stapleton said, but it showed. It showed in his motions, in his expression, and, most of all, in his eyes. Whether it was the softening of his features when John said something especially riveting, or the way they hardened when Jacqui made it her personal occupation to verbally hurt him. Whether it was the subtle smiles, or the innocent stares, or the blank blinking, or the slight fidgeting in his seat, the man before John was a man ashamed of emotions, but unable to hide them.

And as he watched him, listened to him, John was aware that he knew that better than anyone else, perhaps even better than Sherlock himself.

He looked vulnerable, sat there on the metal slab, of which he physically couldn't leave, unable to thoroughly adjust to his legs just yet. He was dry now, or getting there. The tight suit he wore in the tank was merely damp, and his hair was now simply a mess of curls, a handsome ball of soppy chocolate brown locks, having been finally barren of water for the first time in ages.

Unfazed by his state, Sherlock was sat tall and proud, back straight and narrow, chest protruding outward, chin raised and eyes wide. John was still in place, the plastic chair hard and uncomfortable beneath him, but he didn't mind. He merely cared about the man before him, eyes like a supernova, bright, stormy, and crystalline, each color a different star, a different atmosphere, holding planet after planet after planet.

He was gazing at John with a look of curiosity, and a faint amount of faithful expectation.  
John took the gaze and translated it into a look of desperation, a look that pleaded for his help, a look he would certainly amend.

"Dr. Watson?" The deep baritone interrupted, shaking John out of his heroic reverie.

The army doctor glanced upward; eyes no longer glazed over in deep thought, and smiled a weary smile. "Sorry."

Sherlock smirked and shook his head slightly, attention fixated on John, expression open and trusting, eager to wonder and discover, "I had asked, why _are_ you here?"

John felt his heart sink at that, having been so elated by the fact that this being trusted him wholly, he hadn't considered what would happen if the man didn't want him around anymore, despite his honest admittance.

"I can leave. If you like," John began but Sherlock's eyes quickly widened in both surprise and a hint of regret, reluctance, remorse.

He hunched in his seated position, and raised a weary, pale, slender hand to John, "No, no. Please, don't. I just," He paused and scoffed shamefully, "I was wondering why you are _here_. In the laboratory. With Doctors of whom you believe are all, _and I quote_, pillocks."

John chuckled at that, laughing as the man before him reinstated his words, and grew flustered over the idea of his leaving.  
But then, he really thought of the question.

He'd come to this facility, Baskerville, because he was invited to do something productive, something exciting, something he could feel good about doing.  
He had appreciated Stapleton at the beginning, thought she was inspiring, thought her motives were admirable, thought it was strong of her to attempt to follow her dreams when others frowned upon her.

But then he'd seen, seen the real woman behind the fake façade, seen the real work he needed to protect, seen Sherlock. He'd seen a weak, vulnerable, defenseless, and exposed man, seen a genius in fact, and had been persuaded to stay. Not to help Stapleton, not to help head-scientist Bob Frankland, not to chat with Mycroft, and no longer for the adrenaline rush._ No._ He stayed because he wanted to help a man of whom appeared liable and fragile, rare and dismal. He'd stayed for Sherlock, and he didn't even truly know the man.

"Dr. Watson?"

He heard the deep baritone yet again, calling out for him, and John realized he had been blankly staring at the floor for at least a full minute, stuck in the depths of reflection. He glanced up at Sherlock, stared into those desperate, encouraging eyes, and beamed, smiling down at the metallic slab the man sat on.

"Because of you."

Sherlock fell motionless, questioning John's very core with the look painted wistfully across his expression, "I'm sorry?"  
His voice was so hushed, so very quiet John barely made out both words, having to strain his ears and lean slightly forward. He gazed at the man with a regard that spoke of respect, and cherished outlook.

"You. I stayed because of _you._"

When Sherlock still didn't seem to get it, John shook his head and laughed a sad, pitying laugh, "Do you _really_ think I was about to leave you alone with that mad woman? I took one look at you, Sherlock Holmes, and fell into a state of mute, fiery_ protection."_

The_ "project",_ of whom was sat on the slab, blinked, swallowed deeply, and inhaled a shaky breath, eyes clouded with bemusement, with confusion.  
After a few minutes, of which felt, instead, like years, Sherlock's expression narrowed knowingly, and a small smirk pulled at the corners of his lips.

He scoffed loudly, unnervingly, and turned to face John, this time with a piercing glare, no longer friendly nor trusting.  
"Sentiment," He spat, like the word was dirt on the tip of his tongue.

John arched a brow, falling irrevocably concerned with the man's new perspective of him, "What?"

"Sentiment – an emotional attachment, as one gets attached to an object in certain ways."  
Sherlock spoke the words at lightning speed, and John was hopelessly lost.

"Object?"

"Yes, _Dr. Watson_. An _object."_

John shook his head defensively, "But you're not-"

"Am I _not?"_ Sherlock interrupted, grinning widely, wickedly, far too deliberately, "Am I _not_ an object?"

John huffed in disbelieving amusement, rattling his head with precision, angered by the accusation, the self-proclamation, "No,_ no_. No, of _course,_ you're not."

Sherlock smirked and laughed, finding John's denial humorous, hysterical even, "I find that hard to believe, Dr. Watson."

John stood from his chair, heartache and pity settling uncontrollably at the bottom of his gut, as his fists clenched and his expression reddened with anger towards Stapleton, towards Frankland, towards all the good-for-nothing, know-it-all scientists that operated on a living being, on a man who finally found peace, on a poor man who was now desperately convinced he was an item, something that could be treated lightly.

_"What?"_ John snapped, trying uselessly to contain his acrimony.

"Dr. Watson, I am an owned piece of property. I am to be controlled and manipulated. To be turned on and off. Surely, even you understand that." Sherlock blurted, eyes flaring with ferocity, rage, and hopelessness. John realized he was attempting to end the argument, insulting John with pointless comments, comparing his own genius to John's average mind, thoughts and beliefs; an attempt to scare away the one person who thoroughly cares for him.

John's heart swelled again, sympathy dwelling for the state of such a broken man, "No, Sherlock. You have your own _mind,_ your own _body._"

"Oh, and for _what_ John?" Sherlock boasted, chuckling darkly, eyes glistening over in silenced, reprimanded tears, tears of both fury and misery, "What does it _matter?_ The very mind and body you speak of can be directed, restrained. I can barely move an inch, and even if I do, I will be put right back in my place."

He stopped for a moment, turning away, and then sighing and softly shaking his head. Whirling back to face John, he simply stared, eyes wide and pleading, beckoning John to listen and act, "What evidence can you provide _now_, _Doctor_? What could you possibly say to convince me otherwise?"

John didn't know.

It wasn't something he could prove or explain, he just knew that Sherlock was human, was meant to be human, and acted human enough to be considered one.

Suddenly, the door to the lab slammed open, revealing Stapleton leading on a group of tainted white coats, Frankland at her side. She took a short glimpse at John, before heading directly for the control panel, her own coat sprawling out behind her flamboyantly.

Sherlock watched her for a moment before facing John again, eyes wide with fear, with unspoken heartache, and desperation. John blinked, swallowed, inhaled deeply, and gained his courage, approaching Stapleton rapidly, as she stood before the long line of bit and bobs, buttons and levers.

"Jacqui," John called out, testing out her first name in an attempt to reason with her.  
She turned to him with a small smile, observing as he neared her, arms outstretched, expression weary and torn.

"John, can I help you?" She spoke innocently, lips curving as she stared his way, one hand on the lever that would instantly shut Sherlock down.

John swallowed, glanced at the control, and then back to the cruel scientist before him, fingers shaking with the need to protect her so-called _"project"_.  
"Look, can he just stay awake for a bit longer?" John questioned, brows raised questioningly, finally working up a strong splurge of confidence.

Stapleton scoffed, looked over John's shoulder for a glimpse of the _"project"_, of whom was currently being manhandled by a group of white-coated scientists, gripping his torso, arms, and shoulders, and then turned back, one brow arched in suspicion. "_Awake?_ Why?"

John inwardly rolled his eyes, but kept his composure, "He _likes_ being awake. He _enjoys_ talking."

Frankland was now at her side, glaring at John with an amused expression, as though he was currently speaking another language. Stapleton glanced at her head-scientist, huffed a small laugh, and then glowered at John.

"Dr. Watson, _Chezza_ has now been awake for as long as I needed him to be," She began, eyeing John curiously, "You're job is to _guard,_ John. You did so for several hours now, and I thank you for that." Her hand readjusted itself on the lever, "Now, if you _please_, allow me to do my own job correctly."

In an instant, she brought her hand downward, and the control panel clinked and clanked as it distributed its command. John whirled around to already find Sherlock lying flat on the metal slab of the tank, of which was currently lowering into the water beneath him.

Before his eyes stuttered shut, he mouthed a simple word to John, a word so very simple, it would seem unnecessary, be deemed unimportant.  
But to John? It meant _everything._

Because as Sherlock was embalmed by bright blue water, his lips formed a gentle, utterly fragile,_ "Sorry."_

* * *

_"Mistakes are always forgivable, if one has the courage to admit them."  
__**-Bruce Lee**_

* * *

John was sat in the corner of the laboratory.

One could say he was sulking, or pouting, or simply thinking, but the truth was, he was containing his urge to murder someone.  
The inhumane sods were so unfair it should be illegal. It should be a crime to treat another human being the way they treat one Sherlock Holmes.

"John."

The retired army doctor lifted his head, glancing at Stapleton with narrowed, angry eyes as she approached him, lips quirked in a devilish smile, something round clasped between red-painted fingernails. She stopped in front of him, arching a brow at his burning eyes, before hoisting the mysterious object into the air. It was a disc, and its silver reflection was bursting with sharp flickers in the artificial light.

John tried to get a better look, but Stapleton spun it around the width of her ring finger.

"Any guesses?" She grinned, her expression wickedly happy, her eyes wickedly bright.

With a huff, John shook his head, admitting his confusion to the hateful woman before him. She shrugged it off and handed him the desk, upside-down, so that when John acquired it, he had to flip it right side up.

It was cold in his hands, fragile and easily breakable, and suddenly he imagined the disk being Sherlock Holmes: brittle, and vulnerable, and frigid, and weak. His personality was strong and confident at the best of times, but on the outside he appeared as though you could take him in your arms and snap him in two. Quite like the disc in John's hands. John swallowed and turned the object in his fingers.

Across its bare silver body, the initials _"S.H"_ were printed in bold, black, haphazard writing. John's blood felt as though the coldest ice had replaced it, and his entire being shrunk into a carcass of audible dread. "What's _on_ this?" John reluctantly asked, eyes remaining fixated on the disc in hand, unwilling to face Stapleton; too afraid he'd discover the answer in the twist of her features.

"Everything that's on the chip."

Now, John looked up. "His memories?"

Stapleton still wore the demonic smirk, eyes fiery and bold, "Precisely, Dr. Watson."

John swallowed, glanced at the disc, and then back up at the woman before him, a snake dressed in a white lab coat.  
"So," He began, regret lining every letter, every syllable. "Why are they on a disc?"

Stapleton took the object back from John's hands, hoisting it upward and holding it directly in front of her eyes as they darted cheerily over every inch of the item. "Because," She glanced down at the army doctor, grin wicked and dark, "We're going to _watch_ his memories, John."

* * *

_"Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires."  
__**\- William Shakespeare, Macbeth**_


	12. Platform Escapement Part 1

_A/N: Hi lovelies. :) _  
_So this will be divided into several parts - probably three._  
_I'm going to go into quite a bit of detail when the memories come about._  
_Please enjoy and leave a review! I love them!_

_You're all amazing! I love you all! Good night! *hugs*_

_-JB xxx_

* * *

Chapter 11: _Platform escapement  
_Part 1

_(This usually consists of a balance wheel and associated parts, a verge which is often jeweled, and an escape wheel. _  
_Some of the higher quality balance wheels have timekeeping adjustment screws in the wheel itself.)_

* * *

It was wrong. The very thought of it was wrong.

The very idea, the entirety of its core, the soul purpose of its brutal plan for invasion; it was wrong to treat a man as though he were some recorded film on a VCR, available to the viewer at open, extreme vulnerability. It was wrong to press play and pause, and to skip ahead, or rewind, in the memories of another's life. It was wrong, and John had expressed the fact, but Stapleton, the deranged, mad, cold scientist had simply smirked and shook her head.

The funny part was that when John voiced his concerns, she answered him with a sneer of a response.  
"You're living in the past, Dr. Watson," She had snapped proudly at him, "This is the age of discovery; the age of science."

John didn't understand – couldn't understand – how it was considered a positive accomplishment: Stapleton had cut a dead man open, filled a corpse with wires and gears and metal, zapped him back to life, and was now using her newly revived Frankenstein as a play thing, something for her to mess around with, something for her to have_ fun_ with.

She had disturbed the very notion of peace.

In a world of such chaos, such cruelty, such intricate judgment, such divine disaster, the only true place one would find peace is in the act of death. Never having to worry, never having to cry, or hurt, or hate – simply at rest. Sherlock Holmes – a junkie, so very young, a man depressed and tormented, a genius lost to the world because of the cold envy of humanity – had found peace.

And Jacqui Stapleton had ripped it away from him.

John was fuming. On the outside he was a shell of silence, a cocoon of carelessness, an emotionless existence. On the inside he was a rocket stuck on the launch pad, spinning out of control. On the inside he was a caged tiger, jabbed by hot sticks and commanded to perform degrading tricks of which went against all raw nature. John was a raging, rampant, railroad train, the tracks shattering beneath his weight, falling apart at each touch, collapsing into the ground below.

John was incomprehensibly angry.  
Stapleton was overtly oblivious.  
And Sherlock had been brutally manipulated.

With a sigh, John pushed his way into the laboratory, the sudden smell of electricity and steel neither alarming nor unfamiliar. His footsteps echoed far too loudly against the metallic floor beneath him, and as he cleared his throat, it was as though the noise had bounced off the walls and came crashing down onto his ear with bruising force. The white lab coats currently surrounding the tank stepped to the side and smiled swift smiles his way, a mere act of welcoming intent, nothing more, nothing less. John did not return the gesture.

He merely approached the test subject, striding confidently toward the man sprawled out across the slab, watching as those viewing flashed hesitant looks at one another before backing even farther away, some retreating to the control panels. John softened in his stance upon observing the being again.

The curls were their usual dark, damp color – sprawling outward in an array of melted chocolate décor. His cheekbones were as prominent as ever, chiseled, shadowed, and sketched pristinely across his expression, so sharp John instantly thought of daggers. His lips had the curve of the Cupid's bow and were a pale pink, tinted slightly blue due to the frigid water he spent so much time in. John saw a man pained, hurt, and alone.

A man who needed John Watson as much as John Watson seemed to need him.

"Dr. Watson." The piercing, high-pitched, womanly voice hit him hard, shocking him from his peaceful reverie, and leading him to spin around defensively, eyes narrowed, brows furrowed, body guarded and abrupt. Stapleton was clad in the ever-present white coat, along with red jeans, and a pale pink undershirt – her rosy fingernails still glistening, as though recently polished.

John grunted, and nodded his head firmly, composing himself as he stood up straighter, "Morning."

Stapleton smirked and rattled her head his way, scoffing as she stepped around him and toward Sherlock, a clipboard and pen in her hands. She scribbled a few words in her scripted handwriting before heading for the controls, a frown in place as she studied her workspace. Frankland was quickly beside her, murmuring something in her ear, which merely caused her to nod her head and shoo him away.

John swallowed, rather irritated at the fact that he was being ignored, and made his way towards her, expression open and questioning. She glanced up from her work upon hearing his approach and rolled her eyes, obviously noticing his confusion, "What is it, John?"

John shrugged, "Just curious as to what we're doing today."

She grinned wickedly, reached down for a moment, and then revealed the shimmering, silver disc, the red contrasting terrifyingly well with its dark shade. John took the notion as her answer and sighed, turning back to face Sherlock again, his expression blank and unknowing.

"We plan to observe his reactions as well."

John whirled backwards, eyes locking onto Stapleton's smug features, her own eyes bright and conniving, menacing and guiltless. She barked a command to Frankland, of which sent him sprinting into motion, and then turned back toward John, placing the clipboard down onto the counter before stepping closer to the man on the metal slab.

"You see, his senses will be tuned toward the memories," She smirked, blinked, and then reached toward Sherlock, one pale hand extending to caress his cheekbone, "It'll be like he's reliving those memories, simply over again."

She said it with such nonchalance that John couldn't help himself. What was hidden on the inside poured into his outside like a waterfall – full, violent, and overwhelming. He snapped, his fingers spreading, his palm slapping hard against Stapleton's wrist, the smack audible throughout the metallic laboratory. He had her in his grip, her own fingers floating helplessly above Sherlock's jaw.

She couldn't touch him. She was a monster, a snake, a witch having too much fun with her potions. Stapleton's expression was open, wide and disbelieving, frightened to an extent, and alarmed at full capacity. John was blank, quite shocked with himself at the physicality.

And then he merely met Jacqui's eyes and shrugged mockingly, mindless and smug, "You risk a chance of _overheating."_

Her features fell, hardening respectively, and she wrenched herself from his grasp, stepping backward while swallowing uneasily, "Quite right."

With that, she returned to the control panel, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, and John was about to let out another snide comment, or perhaps simply another question, but was cut off, before ever having the chance, by the door of the laboratory squeaking open, eerie and discreet. He turned and took in the sight of Mycroft Holmes, posture stiff and nervous, Not-Anthea following obediently behind him. He was clothed in his typical pinstriped suit, his tie an accessory of perfection, and held his ever-present black umbrella in his left hand.

John watched Mycroft's expression of emotionless arrogance and then glanced at Stapleton, her own expression distant and carefree. They loathed one another. It was evident in the way their nose scrunched at the presence of the other, the way their eyes flared collectively, the way their stances became more fixed, more uncertain.

"Mycroft," Stapleton mused with a faux smile, "Are you going to stay this time? Or flee like before?"  
John could hear the spite, the aggression, in her deceitful tone of voice.

"I plan on _staying_, Jacqui." Mycroft sneered loathingly, "If you don't _mind."_

With another fake grin, Stapleton tapped a few buttons on her control panel, each clicking and whirring and heaving unsteadily. John swallowed, picked himself up, glanced at Sherlock despairingly and then headed over to where Mycroft stood, straight like a rod, quietly and observantly.

He stopped in front of the man and shook his head, "Are you_ okay_ with all this?"

Mycroft huffed and glared back at the army doctor, "Dr. Watson, does it truly matter if I am or not? She will perform this cruel act of science either way."

John thought about it for a moment, and realized he was completely right. Stapleton was out of her mind – chaotic, insane, mad, a loon. She was determined to have her way – and she would, no matter who got hurt in the process.

When John heard the start of a machine, metal clanking and fizzing, he left Mycroft's side and trotted back toward the man on the slab, eyes shut tight, palms extended outwards. John couldn't help the temptation, and so when Stapleton was busy chatting and demanding things from her science goons, John planted his fingers between Sherlock's own. As they intertwined, John blinked, sighed, and whispered, "I'm going to get you out of this. One way or another." And then he let go, stepped back, and watched as Stapleton inserted the DVD into the drive, commanding Frankland to hit a few buttons, before she reached for her clipboard and gazed heavily at the screen of her computer, blown up wide on a projector, displaying the image on the wall behind Sherlock's tank.

* * *

_"If you carry your childhood with you, you never become older."_  
-Tom Stoppard

* * *

A woman was leaning over something, her eyes sullen and dark, almost angry and spiteful. A man was beside her, his expression completely opposite, bright and cheerful, excited even. The lighting behind them was a bright white, flat and dull, and so very blinding, similar to the walls of the room they seemed to be standing in. The picture John was watching was just slightly blurry, foggy almost, as though the lens of a camera held several greasy smudges.

The woman suddenly spoke, her voice tired, the same as her features. "I can't believe this." She sounded irritated, aggravated, as her dark, brown hair cascaded downwards, enveloping the entire space between her and whatever she was staring down at.

The man beside her, hair a rich hazel, eyes a bright green, contrasting thickly with the dark black of the woman's own irises, sighed and shook his head, "Darling, come now."

His wife, if John was inferring, stepped away from the image and scoffed coldly, eyes blazing in unspoken rage.  
"You're not the one who has to take care of him, William."

William seemed to fall angry at her comment, "I'm his _father._ Of course I have to take care of him!"

"Yeah, well, while you're busy working your arse off, I'll have to breast-feed him and change his diapers, and make sure he's entertained." The woman was still shaking her head; betrayal lining her features as she looked down at what John assumed was a child, a newborn baby more likely.

William merely closed his eyes, and sighed again, heavy and desperate as he listened to his wife's words.

"Mycroft is still growing," She snapped, eyes glaring wildly, "Now I have another boy to worry about."

John glanced over at Mycroft in the dark of the room, face illuminated by the light of the projector, brow intrigued and alarmed.

The mother paused for a moment, rattled her head some more and continued, "Listen. Mycroft was a miracle, William. He's_ perfect_. Nobody gets two miracles. This one is going to be hell. I'm sure of it." With that, she was gone from the picture and the father was simply stood there, glum and exasperated, appearing frankly put out and alone.

Just when John thought the argument was over, the man, William, spoke, "Why must you be like this? So _negative?"_

The woman's response could be heard just audibly over the silence, "I wanted a girl." And then the slam of a door.

The father still remained, however, and he was smiling sadly now, staring down at John and Mycroft and Stapleton and all her scientists. His lips quirked into a cheerful grin and he chuckled slightly, "I'll name you after me then, love." He reached forward, a hand brushing over the image. "You deserve a proper name, a strong one." The man sighed and shook his head, "A name so brilliant, you'll be determined enough to live up to it."

John held his breath.

"Welcome to the world, William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

* * *

_"The monotony and solitude of a quiet life stimulates the creative mind."_  
-Albert Einstein

* * *

John glanced at Sherlock. He was twitching, flinching, wincing, but nothing too extreme.  
Stapleton was scribbling furiously on her clipboard. Mycroft was blank, his expression unsolvable.


	13. Platform Escapement Part 2

_A/N: Well, here it is! Part 2 of 3!  
Let me know what you think in a review please!  
And thank you so much to everyone who has been so supportive and motivational.  
Every lovely review and criticism, favorite and follow, helps in my writing._

_I appreciate you ALL!_

_All the best, xxx  
-JB_

* * *

Chapter 11: _Platform escapement  
_Part 2

* * *

_"It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important."  
__**Arthur Conan Doyle**_

* * *

John was looking at a stuffed bumblebee.

He could just make out the formation of glossy wings, fluffy exterior black and yellow stripes, and an utterly harmless stinger. It was twisted between the tiny, pale hands of a child, button eyes almost glowing in the low light that graced the room, merely emanating from the gape of the cracked open door. Bars could be seen, wooden bars, giving way to the estimation of a baby crib, pillows and more stuffed animals serving as useful clues. Small, baby blue, cotton clad feet could be seen, rising and falling in restlessness, eager to keep themselves from the clutches of sleep and dreams.

They twitched up and down, excited and impatient, bobbing the white bottom of the soft baby crib with minute thumps. The bee seemed unshaken by the force of the baby's fidgety nature, and merely took to lying there, across the toddler's abdomen, stringy black smile still in place.

John couldn't help but beam brightly at the innocent bundle of pure harmless existence portrayed across the screen. It reminded him of peace and solitude, grace and beauty, life and birth. It was an important reminder, somewhat of a wakeup call; something that slapped him across the face and yelled at him for even thinking up the mundane idea of lifting a gun to his head and ending it all.

He could see Mycroft in his peripheral vision, standing there _oh-so-calmly_, eyes frozen on the image presented before him, posture stiff, tense, sullen. So very devastated, yet utterly relieved at watching the very memories he'd lived through himself.

Stapleton was on the other side of the room, gaze directed solely on the monitor before her, the fingers on both hands clutching the clipboard so tight they were fading to white, expression sharp and concentrated, whilst remaining bewildered and bemused by the very moments in time she was witnessing.

John simply stood before the progressing images, fixated on the point of view displayed by the mind of William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

The picture was suddenly beginning to move far more quickly, no longer a baby simply squirming – no – but now a baby fleeing, escaping. Tiny hands were reaching for the bars of the small, wooden crib, successfully grabbing hold. The pale appendages jiggled the walls of the prison that felt so very suffocating, filling the room with clanks and clicks of wood smacking against wood.

When the child became aware psychical force would do no good, he turned, observing his stuffed playthings sat at the end of his bed, all looking droopy and dejected, as though they longed for freedom as well.

Soon, the toddler was extending a baby blue, pajama-clothed arm toward a sleepy-gazed, donkey plush, of which he dragged nearer to himself, hauling it backwards, and tucking it underneath him. He then did the same with a lion, and a bear, and a wolf, and a fox, until all of the animals created somewhat of a tower.

John shook his head in amazement, watching as the small human being placed careful feet along the surface of a mountain of colorful creatures, hoisting himself onto the pile, before having the ability, and the height, to pull himself over the wall of the crib. The retired army doctor gasped inwardly, lips quirking in another brewing smile, features crinkling in awe of such young intelligence.

He glanced at Stapleton; her eyes were wide with wonder, incredulity. The pen was frozen above a mess of scribbles on lined paper, simply waiting for more motivation, and for the woman in charge to stop gazing at the brilliance being displayed across the screen. John couldn't even decipher Mycroft's expression – it was as though he was surprised, and yet not surprised at the same time.

John then slowly turned to watch Sherlock – not the baby boy on the screen but the man, the revived corpse, lying stone cold on the hard metal surface of his tank, wires in place, gears ticking. Worry made its way through John's system once again, turning his blood cold, asphyxiating his heart, and shutting down the steady pace of his expanding lungs. The man was flinching and wincing – violently this time.

It was apparent the memory lapse was taking a toll on both his mind and his body, exhausting his very core. John swallowed, took a break from watching the further flashing images blaring across the screen, now of a baby genius strolling through the dark of his silent, monstrous house, unafraid and unconcerned, and instead made his way over to the scientist stood tense on her own.

She didn't even twitch when John cleared his throat beside her.

"Have you, by any chance, documented Sherlock's state at this very moment?" He asked, tone laced with audible venom, causing Stapleton to turn reluctantly his way, one brow arched in suspicion before glancing at her _"project's"_ current position. She stared for a mere few moments, shrugged, and then went back to watching the large monitor in front of them. John was fuming – as always, when he spoke with her.

"I believe it would be _wise_ to rest him. Just until he recuperates." John suggested, eyes blinking repeatedly in mute disbelief of the woman's horrific character.

The snake chuckled – stiffly, dryly, shortly – placing a hand on John's shoulder, before smirking wickedly and evilly, "I believe it would be wise, Dr. Watson, if you were to mind your own business." She sighed a staged sigh as she continued, "Now, if you'll excuse me. I'm watching something."

John swallowed, nodded, and turned back to the screen, eyes burning with angry tears, not because he felt helpless but because he was sure Sherlock did.

A voice knocked him from his reverie, however, and he glanced up to see a man, the same man of whom had seemed to be Sherlock's father, peering down at the blue clad arms, crawling along a hard wood, pristine floor, small fingers still gripping onto the bumblebee of which had been dragged along for the adventure.

"Sherlock Holmes, you little _bugger._" The deep voice chuckled, and the man's face came further into view as he knelt down before his son. He didn't look much different, overly the same, besides a few more wrinkles and darker eyes. The baby before him made a cooing noise, and the man simply shook his head, letting out another bellowing, friendly laugh. His arms were reaching out then, grasping onto the child, of whom planted his face into the man's shoulder, leading the image to fall black, merely illuminated by the ruffling of cotton, and the mumbling of a genius' father.

"This is the third time tonight, little devil." The man went on with a sigh, "Your mother is not happy, lad. Keeps shoving me from bed whenever she hears your tiny footsteps sneaking around in the hall."

The baby's head moved and the dark room, where the image had originated from, was revealed, looking ever so gloomy, and terribly taunting. The prison of a crib came into view, and Sherlock, the child in his father's arms, squirmed a bit, head shaking and arms wiggling in discontent.

"Sorry, Einstein, but you have got to get to sleep. I know you don't like it, but it's a natural part of anybody's life. Sleep makes you healthy and strong." The father set the boy back down in his crib, eyes bright as he stared at his little charge with simple awe and faint bemusement. He lifted a hand and tapped a finger to the just above the image's point of view, presumably Sherlock's tiny toddler head. "And, it'll strengthen that _brilliant_ mind of yours."  
With a smile, the father laid the child down, kissed him softly, and ruffled his hair, before getting to his feet and sauntering quietly, and slowly, out the door.

John was grinning to himself, reveling in the kindness of Sherlock's father, of Sherlock's sharp intellect, of Sherlock's will to be kept free.

He watched as the monitor went black, inch by inch, eyelids fluttering closed, then open, then closed, then open, until finally, the child in the crib allowed sleep to overtake him, and dreams to intrude upon his thoughts.

* * *

_"Nothing is more creative... nor destructive... than a brilliant mind with a purpose."  
__**Dan Brown**_

* * *

John was, yet again, looking at a bumblebee, except this time, the little insect was not a stuffed animal, but instead the real thing. He could make out the formation of glossy wings, bright exterior black and yellow stripes, and an utterly not-harmless stinger. It was sitting just lightly atop the petal of some kind of flower, a beautiful one, however, with a cone-like shape and peach shade, speckled with a yellow tint. No leaves lined the stem of the blossom; it was simply a straight stalk, the peach seeping into a bright, and lime green base. Behind the bee, was a whole garden of multicolored flowers, plants, bushes, and even a very large, forest green oak tree.

John stood admiring the enticing scene, before he realized a hand was taking over part of the photo. In the pale appendage sat a glass container, and in the other, sat a blue lid, with makeshift holes poked arbitrarily into the plastic. John smiled, realizing just what the young Sherlock planned to accomplish. Stapleton had zoomed forward a bit in the mind of her test subject, eager to get farther into the stream, and so now Sherlock was perhaps six, maybe younger, maybe a bit older.

But, still smart as ever.

The container flew downwards, trapping the smug little bee inside it's walls, before the cover came forward as well, smacking hard onto the rim of the cup, followed by the opposite hand screwing the lid on further and holding the glass prison up before him as though it were a trophy. The tiny bug buzzed and protested, slapping against the walls that contained it and getting nowhere. Little Sherlock merely admired it, gazing hard at the insect, little fingers caressing the translucent surface encaging his achievement.

"Did you know that if the bee disappeared from the face of the Earth, man would have roughly four years left to live?" A familiar voice grunted over the image of the bee. However, it wasn't Sherlock's father that had spoken, but an entirely different being.

John's eyes widened and he whirled to face Mycroft standing shock still in the corner of the laboratory, hands just lightly shaking, posture tense and stiff. And just as the army doctor turned back to the screen, there he was, sitting on a small brown bench before Sherlock's eyes. He was dressed just as formal as you'd expect, slacks in top condition, a white dress shirt and green tie hiding beneath the dull gray of a school uniform, most likely for a private school, along with fancy shoes that appeared far more expensive than even those John was currently wearing. His hair wasn't the dark brown that John was familiar with, but instead a shade of ginger, more red rather than chestnut. He seemed around fifteen, possibly even older, and was staring down at Sherlock with the brightest expression of admiration and respect.

"Yes, because bees are responsible for pollinating about one-sixth of the flowering plant species worldwide and approximately 400 different types of plants."  
A younger voice responded, the deep baritone only slightly higher pitched than that of the man's on the slab. The monitor revealed a teenaged Mycroft once more, nodding his head, his entire being contrasting with the weight of green behind him, another oak tree with branches like rings in a spider web.

"Very good, 'Lock." The older brother got to his feet, stepping around and away from the brown park bench before approaching his little sibling sat in the green grass before him, hands still clutching the glass container, the bee inside buzzing for its release. "Learn that from your biology teacher, did you?"  
To John, it sounded like Mycroft was joking, teasing his younger brother, but it didn't seem Sherlock had caught on.

"Of course not. Don't be daft." The child sniffed petulantly and, or so it seemed on the screen, crossed his arms over his chest, "She doesn't say nothing of importance."

"_Anything_, Sherlock." Mycroft corrected smugly, and then sighed, sitting beside his brother on the grass. "Perhaps you're just not paying enough attention."

Sherlock seemed to be affronted by that because his head whipped to face his older brother, image taking in the whole of Mycroft's rather concerned appearance. "I pay good attention! More attention than the other half-wits in that class. She just hates me."

Mycroft scoffed and shook his head, "Ms. Montgomery does not _hate_ you, Sherlock."

Sherlock wasn't overtly pleased with that answer. "Does too!"

With a chuckle, the eldest brother got to his feet, peering down at his sibling still lounging in the soft brush of the green garden grass.  
"Perhaps that is because you do not do her homework." Smug expression still intact, Mycroft turned away, headed back and past the little brown bench, in a direction unknown to John. Sherlock huffed irritably, before Mycroft called over his shoulder in finality, eyes glaring with command whilst the little curly-haired child listened, "And be sure to set that bee free, Sherlock Holmes."

With that, the image flipped back to the small cylinder in Sherlock's pale hands, fingers twitching instinctively, and bee buzzing like a rhythm of sufferance. The little boy sighed, shook his head, and reached for the lid, grasping the top and wrenching it open. The tiny insect sprang to life, freeing itself from its prison, wings fluttering, body rising sky high, and stripes flashing in gratitude.

John glanced from the screen to Sherlock's position above the blue tank.

His expression was gut wrenching – his brows were drawn into a frown, lips turned downward, and body tense.  
If John were a master of emotions, he would say Sherlock looked…_jealous._  
Jealous of the bee's freedom.  
Jealous of its simple escape, of its carefree flying.

Sherlock Holmes was envious of such a small animal, a tiny bug he seemed to be quite fascinated by. And why? Because that little body of life had the ability to live, the ability to flee, the ability to leave, the ability to come and go, the ability to simply _be. _

And Sherlock Holmes had none of that.

* * *

_"Freedom is what you do with what's been done to you."  
__**Jean-Paul Sartre**_


	14. Platform Escapement Part 3

_A/N: Hello guys! This chapter is a longer one because I owe you all deeply!_  
_I'm sorry for the delay on this, it's my senior year in high school and I'm loaded with crap to do._

_I really hope you enjoy this chapter, because I am pretty proud of it! :3_  
_Please leave a review and let me know you're all still with me even after that arduous wait. _  
_(So sorry again for that.)_  
_Message me anytime you like my friends. _  
_I'm always around if someone wants to talk or ask me any questions!_

_Alrightie, well, let me know what you think, and thanks again for all the support!_  
_Love you all! *hugs breathlessly*_

_All the best,_  
_JB xxx_

* * *

**Chapter 11: **_Platform Escapement_  
Part 3

* * *

The image portrayed a small, pale hand, knocking on an oak wood door, fancy and pristine, polished and pretentious. John listened as a deep baritone voice, of which he was now familiar with, let out a quick grunt of confirmation, resulting in the creak of the door, and the revelation of a messy, overflowing workspace. Sherlock made his way over the unraveled sheets of paper, through the stacks of golden folders, and past the untidy file cabinets, until he came upon his father, staring directly at him, smile broadening his features, expression softening as soon as he laid eyes on his son.

"And to what do I owe this pleasure?"

It was quiet for a moment, holding the entire laboratory in a firm, unyielding grip, as though each and every bystander were far too afraid to make a noise, out of fear of disturbing the display of memories.

"Pirates," was the simple reply, spoken in a voice so young and frail, yet so very deepened by the burden of indifference.

His father seemed ever so perplexed by the effect of that one single, detrimental word. With a frown, he shook his head and scoffed, "Pirates?"

The image nodded and Sherlock was suddenly speaking again, "Yes. I found a book, you see."

His father smirked and bobbed his head in childish understanding, his expression an emotion of nurture and curiosity, "A book?"

"Yes, and it's about pirates and treasure." Sherlock stated, tone of voice proud and determined.

William Holmes blinked, narrowed his eyes, and leaned forward, sweeping Sherlock up with both arms, and sitting him on his lap, gently and sincerely, "And what book was this, Einstein?"

Sherlock lifted his dainty, pale hands and wrapped them around the rim of his father's neck, staring straight up and into the man's emerald irises. "Treasure Island."

His father immediately grinned, rattling his head, obviously familiar with the title, "Ah, now that_ is_ a fantastic story."

The small, fragile baritone spoke up again, his tone intrigued and inquisitive, "Father? Can I be a pirate?"

The man's expression altered then, to a mixture of desperation, pride, and an inarguable amount of nostalgia. The skin by his eyes crinkled, one side of his lips twitched upwards, his brows turned in, furrowed in the dim, artificial light of his bureau, and he quickly adjusted the position his child sat in atop his leg.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you can be anything you put your mind to." He smiled, reaching forward, and, or at least it seemed so to John, pinched one of Sherlock's cheeks, "Your life is your own. Choose to live it the way you see fit. And if that is sailing the high seas, well then, so be it."

John glanced over at Mycroft, stood in the dark shadows of the laboratory, expression tight with indignation, eyes distant, glazed over in, perhaps, unshed, and stubborn, tears. He then chose to watch Stapleton, but she was merely staring blankly at the screen of the projected image, clipboard still in hand, pen frozen in place. So, he turned to gaze at Sherlock Holmes, the beautiful man on the slab. His reactions were increasing vigorously, arms twitching, a leg shaking or lifting in a violent flinch, gone terribly unnoticed by the crew of feral scientists. John swallowed, shut his eyes and took a deep breath, just as Stapleton quickly announced a new order to the employees gawking helplessly at the monitor.

"Forward it."

Bob Frankland, slumped across the control panel, leaped to life, eyes flickering over every button and lever in search of the right switch, "To what age, Doctor?"

It seemed as though Stapleton was thinking it over, brows drawn into a frown, eyes slanted in concentration.  
John fell even more anxious, heart racing in both hatred for the woman before him, and admiration for the life splayed across the screen.

"Age _eleven."_

And just like that, they were soaring farther into the future of Sherlock's mind.

* * *

_"Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past."_  
_**George Orwell**_

* * *

"Go on. Open it." The boy's father was sat, hunched over on the soft outlook of a leather coach, eyes wide and blissful, and expression open and inviting. His hands were folded, his elbows resting on his knees, as he looked down on the image, his head bobbing in a forward motion. The screen ventured to another angle, and a gift was revealed, held in two pale, little hands.

The small fingers hurried to rip apart the wrapping paper, yellow with _"Happy Birthday"_ printed in black and blue across the top, as his father continued to grin, seemingly the only one in the room sat watching Sherlock. The boy revealed a small, dainty box of navy blue, long in length and short in width. He gently pried open the lid, lifting it in one smooth motion to reveal a silver, polished magnifying glass. Sherlock's head whirled up to face his father's glistening eyes, and suddenly he had flown forward, scrawny arms locking around the older man's neck.

"Thank you! It's fantastic!" A voice said, Sherlock's of course, now a little bit deeper than before.

His father chuckled, shaking against the boy's tight embrace, "I thought you might like it."

_"Further."_ Stapleton's voice interrupted the touching moment, and John couldn't help but grunt in aggravation. The image whizzed and whirred, and Sherlock's revived body continued to flinch, but eventually the monitor landed on another group of images that, apparently, were far more interesting to the snake of a scientist. But John sees black, a black wall of nothing, just simply black.

Until, in a flash, the picture is a dull gray, revealing a room untouched by artificial light, merely the small flare of candlelight. The image was moving as, presumably, Sherlock took a few steps forward. Another light, a long rectangle stretched beneath the rim of a door, was exposed, and the screen neared it, slowly, terribly slowly, until, softly, voices could be heard.

_"-and I told you no."_

They grew louder once Sherlock grabbed hold of the door handle and dragged it open. He stepped out into the engulfing light, slowly sneaking down a hall of shadows and ancient wallpaper, the sounds of people speaking in a strange, grizzled context, finally becoming clear.

_"You need to take it easy, William."_ A female voice snapped, supposedly Sherlock's mother.

_"I can't take it easy, don't you understand? Work won't let me take it easy."_ The boy's father spat back, tone deep and somewhat furious.

_"Your heart can't take it anymore, Will. It just can't."_

And suddenly a door slammed, hard and blunt, causing the image to shake, as Sherlock's nimble form flinched in unrepentant shock.

* * *

Time moved forward, and, to John's eyes and most likely the rest of the scientific crew surrounding him, Sherlock's father was dying. As each memory passed, he grew paler and paler, his lips flooding to a light purple, his eyes outlined in evidence of sleepless nights and strenuous activity. John's heart was beginning to constrict, worry and dread filling his every twitch, his every movement of subtle observation. Sherlock's body on the metal slab was eerily still, Stapleton was imminently silent, and Mycroft just looked plain outraged.

It wasn't until the memories moved on ahead into winter, displaying the image of a dressed tree, lights of every color shimmering festively, gifts wrapped to perfection beneath the needles dropping occasionally, that things really began to go awry.

Christmas time.

Sherlock was sat with Mycroft, now, presumably eighteen, maybe younger, maybe older. He still looked the same, his hair far more brown, his eyes a touch darker. Their mother was sat in a sofa chair, just off in the background, dressed in a skinny black dress, eyes downcast and exhausted, hair a mess of black curls, as she held a glass of scotch in her hanging hand. The whole family looked as though they were falling…_impatient_.

And then the phone rang, a shrill loud and ear splitting.  
And then Sherlock's mother got up, striding over, lacking in grace, as she lifted the house phone to her ear, cord stretching in protest.  
And then merely a few words followed.

_"Hello?"_

Silence.

_"Yes, it is."_

Sherlock was simply gazing at his mother, just as Mycroft slowly got to his feet.

_"What is this about?"_

More silence followed, and John's stomach clenched in growing trepidation. Sherlock's mother's face went blank, distant, emotionless, and she hung up the phone, placing it on the holder, and simply walking away, leaving behind both her children, waiting to be filled in with a growing curiosity.

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock, swallowed thickly and followed after his mother.  
Sherlock merely dropped his eyes to his lap, where a small silver magnifying glass sat, still as perfect as the day his father had given it to him.

The laboratory was silent. Sherlock's body was still. Mycroft's expression was untouched, unwavering, merely a mask of normality. Stapleton was glaring down at her clipboard, pencil trembling just slightly as she watched the white paper. No one said anything because everyone knew.

William Holmes was _dead._

* * *

_"The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time."_  
_**Mark Twain**_

* * *

The picture was bland. Dull and dark, stormy and gloomy and everything one would find utterly uncomforting. Snow was dropping steadily from tree branches and plopping to the floor, only just tinting the ground slightly white. Headstones were barren of most decoration, besides their golden or bronze titles, or a few flowers here and a few shrubs there. It's dreadfully cold, obvious by the cloud of smoke filling the air, which became apparent with the consistency of Sherlock's heavy breathing. He was staring down at dark grey plaque, bearing the words _"William Scott Holmes, loving husband and father,"_ in a bright shimmering gold. It held the reflection of tree leaves amongst it, adding a touch of life to the muted headstone. The soft patter of approaching footsteps sounded from beside Sherlock's position across from the grave, and John held his breath in anticipation.

"Why didn't he tell us?" The eleven-year-old's deep baritone filled the air, adding an eerie outlook of overhanging nostalgia.

"Tell us what? That his heart was failing?" It was Mycroft, his voice sticky with the impact of winter's harsh cold.  
It was silent for a moment before he added, "Mother knew."

The image nodded in return, "I know."

John swallowed, gazing up at the screen in utter heartbreak, listening to the frailty of Sherlock's soft voice, wincing at the impact of carelessness in Mycroft's own.

"What do you think it felt like?" Sherlock then asked, still glaring down at the headstone bearing his father's name like a fatal tattoo.

Mycroft cleared his throat, "What?"

"Dying. Feeling your heart just," he paused to swallow, _"stop."_

Mycroft scoffed, grunting a rather brash response, "I imagine it wasn't very pleasant."

"No. No, I suppose not."

It's silent again, both in the memory displayed across the screen, and the laboratory John was currently standing in, amongst a dozen scientists, a government official, and a man brought back from the dead.

"I'm sure he was in a lot of pain," Mycroft continued, "It would've been excruciating."

The screen went black and it was apparent to John that Sherlock had just closed his eyes, the words of his sibling a bit too daunting on his hidden emotions.

"His chest would burn with the inability to breathe correctly. His ribs would feel as though they were cracking," Mycroft didn't even pause. He simply plundered on, voice cold with spite, "It would be a cacophony of aching, fiery delusion. And then he'd simply plummet to the floor, tipping sideways and out of his desk chair. Eyes still open. Hand to his chest. Dead within an instant."

Sherlock's eyes opened then, the gravestone revealed once more, harsh, bright, and blurry, before adjusting to the falling snow and dimly lit sunlight. His small pale hand was raised, tucking itself just under his eye, wiping at his pronounced cheeks and nose. John gasped silently to himself, heart beating erratically in melancholy gloom.

Sherlock Holmes had been crying.

At that moment, the younger sibling turned to leave, the headstone leaving the screen, and revealing merely a short glance of a blank-faced Mycroft and then a yard of graves. "You see, brother dear." Mycroft called from behind, voice thick with bold correction, as though scolding the small boy, "It is better, sometimes, to hide your pain from the ones you love."

John swallowed, and angled himself slightly, in place, glancing at Mycroft stood across the room. The corners of his lips were down-turned and he appeared wholly guilt-ridden. John assumed that was the man's cold, harsh way of teaching his little brother a life lesson.

* * *

_"Lessons are not given, they are taken."  
__**Cesare Pavese**_

* * *

John is staring wide-eyed at an ant. It's small, and black, and a perfect picture of three perfect ovals drawn together. Before it, lies a small crumb, perhaps from bread, and John finds the image absolutely riveting. Apparently, so does Sherlock. As the display of the ant grows smaller, it is revealed that Sherlock is clutching firmly to his silver magnifying glass, a long forgotten birthday gift from his father.

His tiny fingers are gripping lovingly at polished metal, so hard one wouldn't think he'd ever let the thing go, until suddenly the little body of a twelve-year old Sherlock Holmes is thrown to the side, shoved to the floor, the lens of his investigative tool leaving the ant's figure, and flying from his hand.

He looks up to see three young kids, perhaps two or three years his elder, all brown-haired and burly-faced, with scrunched up noses and imminent frowns.  
"Hey freak," One of them, with a pig-face, spits, "Whatcha looking at, _huh?"_

John is already angry; fists are balled at his side, his brows are furrowed in a fuming sneer, and his nostrils are flaring in the need to take action.  
Sherlock, ever-so innocent, answers, looking up at them from the hard gravel.  
"An ant," he swallows thickly, "I've given him a crumb and he's carrying it home. It's really quite extraordinary."

Another bully leers in amusement, eyes taunting the boy mockingly, "An _ant?_ How much _weirder_ can you get, freak?"

Pig-face laughs and nods his head, stepping closer to where Sherlock is positioned on the floor, staring hard at the ground, before lifting his boot and smashing it down onto the harmless, little bug. An audible gasp escapes Sherlock's weak, lanky pale body, and John's heart clenches in pained grief.

The third tormentor's eyes glint as he reaches down to snatch up Sherlock's polished, magnifying glass, gripping it roughly in his pudgy fingers.  
"This is a fancy one."

Pig-face scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief, "Did you _steal_ it, freak?"

Sherlock struggles to get to his feet, and when he speaks, his tone is harsh, and cold, as though fed up with the bullies and their feeble minds.  
"Of course not! I do have some class, unlike you lot!"

The second bully reels back in shock, just as the third steps forward threateningly, "Oi! Watch your mouth, you bloody tosser!"  
He shoves Sherlock backwards, just hard enough that he has to stumble to keep his balance.

"Watch _my_ mouth?" Sherlock shook his head and let out a fearless breath of a laugh as his eyes raked over each and every detail of the boys' make-ups,  
"You still wet your bed. Your mother thinks you have some sort of bladder problem. She's even booked you an appointment to get it checked." John throws a hand over his mouth in troubled awe, his mind simply reveling in the boy's genius. "Your mother just caught you smoking, earning you the confiscation of all entertaining technological consoles and your cellphone." Sherlock clears his throat proudly and moves to Pig-face. "And, _you_ \- oh, _you_ are dyslexic, but you don't want to tell anyone out of fear of embarrassment. How exciting."

The first punch is bruising but Sherlock only tumbles backward, aware it was coming. The second is unexpected, and now Sherlock falls, slamming onto to the concrete floor with a thump and a grunt of pain. John took a step forward before realizing his actions and calming his angered nerves.

"Stupid git's lost the plot." Pig-face spat at the ground, glaring at the battered boy below him.

The bully holding the magnifying glass grasped it harder, and Sherlock noticed, eyes narrowing in desperate protest, as he scrambled to get off the ground.  
"No, no! No, please."

John's heart has stopped beating. He's sure it has.

"No please no! No-"

The bully lifted it to the air and brought it down hard and fast, so swiftly the it hid the cement with a smash and an ear-splitting clatter, shards of glasses flying errantly. Sherlock doesn't move. He simply stares at the mess of what used to be the only thing he had left of his father. The three tormentors snigger and turn to leave, Pig-face quickly slamming a boot down on the tool once more, just for good measure.

From what John can tell, Sherlock folds in on himself, shuts his eyes, and cries.

* * *

_"Tears come from the heart and not from the brain."  
__**Leonardo da Vinci**_

* * *

He took a deep breath and glanced at Mycroft; his expression was distant and somewhat shocked, as thought unaware his younger sibling had faced such mockery, such cruelty, and such violence.

John gulped and then turned to Sherlock on the slab, only to rush into action, observing as the man thrashed vigorously on the metal surface. "Dr. Stapleton!" He snapped, eyes flashing up to land on the scientist, staring at him in what seemed to be confusion. He quickly took Sherlock's pale, ice-cold hand, grasping it tightly in his own in a desperate act to calm him down. "Shh, it's okay. It's okay." He mumbled like a mantra, willing the beautiful man before him to calm down, to relax. The man's eyes were still shut tight, his curly, dark hair, black from the dampness of water, shimmering in the artificial laboratory light, whilst he shook and flinched and twitched and seized. When John couldn't manage to still him, he let go of his hand and stormed over to Stapleton, eyes wide with fury, lips pursed in exasperation. He'd had enough of this. It was invasion, no matter how fascinating he found it. He approached the woman, and stood before her, close enough that she could see how his eyes shimmered in rage, and could feel the angered puffs of his breath on her skin.

"You need to stop this," John growled, "_Now." _

Stapleton smirked, leaning even farther forward, nose nearly touching John's own, eyes glistening in betrayal, "One more word out of you, John Watson, and you will not enjoy the consequences."

John scoffed, "Are you threatening me?"

Stapleton shrugged and reeled back, out of his face, only to stare back down at his clipboard, "Perhaps. More so the occupation you hold here, rather than you yourself."

John swallowed, leaned back and blinked slowly, realizing the severity of her threat. No, he couldn't leave. He couldn't leave Sherlock. He sent her a short, affirmative nod, and stepped away, heading back towards his earlier position, glancing at Sherlock's still flinching, and wincing, body. This was torturous.

* * *

The office they sit in is bright, and looks more like a hospital than anything else. The walls are bleached a light beige, the seats are leather and a dull lime green, corner stools and coffee tables hold sharply colored vases lined with drooping flowers, and the visitors, those sitting in the mundane chairs, appear lifeless and incoherent. Sherlock is thirteen now, a pre-teen, growing steadily, yet appearing no different than before, hands still tiny and pale, arms still scrawny and weak.

"I want to leave." The baritone is only a touch deeper, lowering with age.

"We can't leave, Sherlock."

It's Mycroft again – _older now of course, perhaps nineteen? Twenty?_ – his own voice weakened by whatever situation they've gotten themselves into now.

"And _why_ not?" Sherlock protests.

"Because Mummy wants you here. She'll know if you don't attend your appointment." Mycroft informs him with an exasperated sigh.

"I don't need some moronic therapist. There's nothing wrong with me." The younger bites back, and John is taken by surprise.  
_Why would Sherlock Holmes have to be sent to a counselor?_

"Mummy seems to think there is." Mycroft counters, eyes solemn when Sherlock finally glances at him, his appearance still woefully the same.

"What does she know?" There is loathing in the younger's tone.

"Sherlock, she's our mother. Have some respect." Mycroft scolds.

"I hate her."

"No, you don't."

"Yes I do. I've always hated her."

"No, you haven't."

It's silent as they sit there, quietly next to one another. All that can be audibly heard is the ringing of an office phone, the shrills of a nearby baby, and the soft chatter of surrounding groups and families.

"This is a waste of time." Sherlock sighs, shaking his head as he stares around at the others in the building, most likely deducing their every secret, their every issue.

"Sherlock. All you have to do is talk and your done." Mycroft states distastefully, and Sherlock's head whirls to face him again, taking in the depth of his exhausted features.

"Talk about _what?"_

Mycroft blinks, expression emotionless, blank, and distant. "What you're feeling."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, "But you always say it's bad to feel. Because feeling leads to caring and caring is not an advantage."

Mycroft simply stands, peering down at the boy in the leather seat, eyes disapproving, as though disappointed in his little brother.  
"You're right. And do you know why you're here?"

Sherlock shook his head, obviously innocently confused.

"Because you didn't _listen."_

Mycroft turns to leave, adjusting his suit, grabbing hold of his umbrella and swaying toward the exit. Sherlock is left behind to dwell in self-loathing guilt, just as a woman pokes her head out from behind the door of a separate room, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes?"

* * *

_"The beauty is that through disappointment you can gain clarity, and with clarity comes conviction and true originality."_  
_**Conan O'Brien**_

* * *

Now, Sherlock is really unraveling. John is at his side again, grasping his hand, his mouth stumbling over words of encouragement. The thrashing is violent now, hard and bruising, as his body leaps into the air over and over again, only to slam back down and whack against the surface of the metal beneath him.

_"Jesus Christ,"_ John gasped, struggling to hold Sherlock down so that he would no longer hurt himself, nor his body, but instead he felt hands on his shoulders, on his wrists and forearms. He turned around; defensive and protesting as scientists held him tightly, gripping roughly to his skin as he still tried to get to Sherlock, still tried to aid him.

"This is pure_ torture!"_ John yelled, snarling at Stapleton across the room because he can't help it anymore, he can't take it anymore.  
The woman stepped forward approaching John's restless being as he continued to shriek and shout. "You're no better than the tormentors in his memories!"

Once John's hand had been securely brought behind his back so that he could no longer thrash and object, Stapleton leaned into him again, intruding on his personal space, eyes wide with anger and fuming with disappointment. "You are insufferable! You have been since the beginning, Dr. Watson."

John shook his head, laughing in spite of himself, "_I am?_ _I'm_ insufferable?"

Stapleton's hand darted forward and red-polished fingernails gripped the collar of his jumper, "You do not seem to comprehend that in this business, emotions are left outside the door of the laboratory." She dropped him with a shove backward, and John was left glaring, sneering her way with as much hatred as he could muster. "Get him out of my sight." She commanded and turned back around, slowly striding over to her abandoned clipboard.

"You're a _snake_." John began, a wicked grin on his face due to finally having the ability to speak his mind, "You're a snake; you're so quick to label him as abnormal, so quick to deny that he's human." John smirked and scoffed, "You're less human than he'll ever be."

Stapleton was glaring, her brown hair a mess of frazzled nerves, eyes wide with ferocity, rage dwelling in her expression at having to send him away.

But John plundered on, "Your experiment_ will_ fail. I'll do whatever I have to do to make sure you get _nowhere_ with this inhumanity."

Dr. Stapleton chuckled darkly to herself, just as the scientists reached the exit of the laboratory, John in tow. "You have no proof of failure, Dr. Watson."

John merely snickered lightly to himself, whilst the scientists prodded open the thick metal door, grasping John's wrists tighter as they hurried to leave the dark room. "Go to hell," He smirked and with that he was yanked out of the laboratory, left to merely wonder how in the world he was going to break Sherlock Holmes out of Baskerville.


	15. Click Spring

_A/N: Oh my goodness. Guys, I'm so sorry.  
School has just swamped me with a shitload of things to do and I loathe it all._  
_But here you go! I am happy with the chapter and I hope you all will be too!_  
_Please **REVIEW,** so I can see who is all still **with me!**_  
_You all rock! I love you all!_  
_*hugs, kisses, shrugs and smooches*_

_All the best!_  
_JB_

_P.S! I have entered into a fandom contest on !_  
_You can vote for Clockwork!_  
_The link is in my bio! At the bottom!_  
_Thanks you guys!_  
_*kisses again*_

* * *

Chapter 12: _Click Spring_  
(The click spring causes the click to snap into the valleys of the ratchet wheel.)

* * *

John's been sitting for an hour, misshapen clothes, jumpers and jeans, sprawling from a wedged open suitcase at his feet, the few items he had brought with him to his new job when he was finally informed of what the occupation was and allowed to return to his flat for his things. He was sitting atop his bed, each shoe clad foot perched on the floor, arms folded in his lap, hands clenched into fists, fingers blanching at the pure spite of his own grasp. John was infuriated, absolutely, positively outraged. His skin was burning at the touch, reddened and blotched and he could no longer feel any inch of his figure, far too livid to give a fuck. He wanted to murder the snake of a woman, grab her by the neck, and slit her throat. Sure, it was dark, but she was darker. She was wickedly evil, demonically devilish, and she deserved purgatory.

But John took a deep breath, exhaled to his fullest ability, and thought harder on the subject, his anger suddenly overwhelmed by the unforgiving weight of loneliness. Because he was alone now; he was without that marvelous soul of a tortured, tormented man. He was merely on his own, forced to come to terms with the crushing depths of misery; melancholy moods and woeful emotions plaguing his every thought.

And no matter how many instances he thought up for busting the miraculous man out of Baskerville, there was one phrase, spinning through his head on repeat like a mantra, like a chant, like a song on replay: You will never see Sherlock Holmes again.

Never. Never. _Never_.

His mind flooded over with helpless, hopeless, _feeble_ judgments.

And John felt as though he couldn't breathe – as though someone had taken hold of his body, wrapped grim fingers around the very circumference of his heart, and squeezed, so hard he could no longer inhale the oxygen he needed.

But then he froze; he stiffened, his eyes narrowing and his mind whirling in confusion, because suddenly his inability to breathe wasn't because of the fact that his heart was failing, it was because he could smell _smoke_.

Lots of smoke. Deathly, gruesome, _thick_ smoke.

A kind of smoke only ever formed by the severe embrace of a desperate fire, a chemical fire – the kind of smoke that burned your eyes and turned your tongue bitter; the kind of smoke that weakened your every movement, even mere swallowing, even mere blinking.

And the first thing that to his battered, and emotionally beaten mind, is one name, one important, invaluable, _beautiful_ name.

_Sherlock._

John leaped from his seat on the edge of his bed, flying toward the door of his small room at the Baskerville facility, and lunging it open, grasping hard to the little grey knob. He whirled out into the corridor, his head spinning desperately, searching for any evidence of his threateningly strong sense of smell, eyes raking over every inch, every corner of the hallway. Up ahead, scientists sprinted forwards, fleeing from the area like rabbits at the sound of a gunshot. John quickly ran in the opposite directions, speeding down alongside the white walls, blindingly pale in the artificial light and the depth of John's panic. He hurriedly headed directly for the lab in which Sherlock presumably lay, where he had, only a mere hour ago, left Stapleton verging on spontaneous combustion, the anger having been wholly present in the shades flaring across her irises. He gasped for air, pushing past more escaping employees, breathing in the scent of harsh, unguarded smoke, the bitterness and acidic taste clouding his vision, stinging within his nostrils, and tainting the top of his mouth sour.

He was finally approaching the foot of the lab door, and upon his arrival the air was far more smoldering, a presence like that of a grim reaper, hovering around and above him as though prepared to claim his very life.

John, without hesitating, shoved his entire weight against the metal, laboratory doors. Red, orange, and yellow was everywhere. Sparks snapped and popped and cracked against the electric wires sprawled across the entirety of the lab; metal was charred with soot and ash, and cabinets layered the tiled ground, a few lying atop unconscious bodies of beings John had seen merely minutes ago.

He doesn't stop to think about what he's doing. He doesn't stop to wonder why there was suddenly an enraging outburst of flames before his eyes.  
He doesn't even stop to consider that Sherlock might be dead, that he might die in the process of searching for him.

He merely acts.

And he acts quickly.

* * *

_"Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs."_  
_William Shakespeare_

* * *

With a squalid shriek, John was flying forward, slamming against machinery and metal panels, struggling to breath in the harsh, unforgiving air, throat tightening, eyes stinging. He made his way toward the blue tank, now charred from the force of blistering embers and brutal flames, aquamarine water littered with ash and the rubble of god-knows-what. His eyes darted over every inch of what he could make out in the clouds of overhanging smoke; shimmering light, metallic surfaces, no Sherlock.

He fought onwards, but his body faltered, tossing him into an uncoordinated stumble, one hand landing shockingly loud on the flat slab of metal, metal no longer baring the lanky, pale body of the beautiful man John had come to admire, cherish – perhaps even love.

He choked on the thick oxygen, desperately searching for someone, something – _anything_, really.

And then his pale, faded blue-brown eyes met the dark shadows of another pair, horridly half-lidded, hauntingly curious. John swallowed the lump in his throat and crawled forward, inching his way over to the man sprawled out across the laboratory's reflective floor. Frankland's skin was marred with charcoal, arbitrary smudges of dirt and ash; his body was bent unnaturally and his mouth was half open, desperate for clean, breathable air.

John nudged him with a frail, shaking hand and the man went rigid, eyes widening slightly and brows lifting weakly.  
"Dr. Frankland?" John swallowed, just barely refraining from choking on the stale stench of burning metal, "What the hell happened?"

Bob Frankland shook his head, shoulders inching upwards in a fragile shrug, body twitching uncomfortably, whilst John sighed and struggled to get to his feet. Before he could catch his balance, however, a hand clasped his wrist, tight and bruising, and he glanced down, Frankland's expression blank and distant. The older man lifted a trembling finger, pointing in a direction just behind John's kneeling position, and John immediately spun around, eyes wide with suspicious curiosity.

And then he saw the long, pale, slender figure of a miracle.

Sherlock Holmes was lying just to his right, face tucked into the dark arch of his elbow, opposite arm extended outward, palm facing upwards, head of curls layered with specks of grey ash. John instantly abandoned the scientist and dashed to his side, hands landing on the frail skin of his impossible man, fingers quivering with utter relief, blissfully pleased he had managed to find him. He scanned the being over, grateful to discover the man mostly untouched, unmarred, unharmed.

With a deep breath, he reached forward and flipped Sherlock over, revealing the slack expression lacing his features, the thin line of his pale lips, the arch of his sharp cheekbones, of which appeared far more structured due to the soot shadowing each line, each curve. To John's disbelief, and relief, the man before him was no longer plugged in, his body free of any restricting wires, or loose gears.

John could carry him. He would carry him. He had to.

So, he wrapped his arms around the slender figure, his hands grasping Sherlock's torso and beneath his knees, clutching him bridal style to his chest, protectively, his stance and posture guarded. Heaving forward, John took off, stepping over metal bars, and beams, and broken machinery, reveling in the feel of Sherlock so close to him, the frigid sensation of his bare skin, refreshing and uplifting.

And then he stopped.  
Because what was he doing?

He merely had Sherlock's body, not his mind nor his power source. A mere corpse in his arms without the technology he required. Biting his lip, so hard that he would soon bleed, John placed Sherlock on the metal slab, carefully and efficiently, tucking him safely into a curved fetal position, before turning back to Bob Frankland, grasping the scientist by the collar of his lab coat, nostrils flaring sorely, eyes burning in the bitter air.

"Where is it?"

Frankland shook his head, half-lidded eyes narrowing as best they could.

"Where is the portable charger? And the_ chips_ – where are the chips?" John snapped, clutching the white fabric tighter, and shoving him backward violently, impatiently.

Frankland swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing at the strenuous action, his voice raspy as he inhaled copious amounts of stale smoke.  
"Beneath the," he coughed, "control panel."

John glanced over at the burning levers and multicolored buttons, then turned back to Frankland, blinking unsteadily, tears escaping his eyes, as he nodded, dropping the man to the floor and springing to his feet. He sprinted over to the small drawers beneath the array of oddly shaped devices and contraptions, and quickly yanked the doors open, revealing a small rectangular kit, white text printed across the front, baring the familiar initials, _'SH'_.

John leaned forward, snatching it up gracefully, and whirled back around, intending to take off, to get out, to flee, before he spotted several thin items of interest laid out across the top of Dr. Stapleton's clipboard. John swallowed, staring hatefully at the DVD marked _'Memories'_, and the two chips baring scribbles of_ 'SH'._ He blinked, hesitated, and then reached forward, scooping the objects off the table and tucking them into the kit in his hands – Sherlock's portable charger.

With something akin to shame, he took off, sprinting back to Sherlock on the metal slab, breathing faltering further with every intake, as he hurled the man into his arms and darted for the exit, dodging the flames eager to lick at his skin, the embers grasping onto his clothes, the smoke sticking to his skin.

He turned, positioning his shoulder directly in front of him, and ramming against the double laboratory doors, smoke whirling out around his figure, attempting to escape just as desperately as John himself. The halls were barren of all life, blank, vacant, and merely white, tinted dark by the translucent grey air. John adjusted the man in his arms and rushed forward, taking each corner of every corridor faster than ever before, sliding around curves, dodging sharp edges.

He was reminded of a childhood memory whilst twirling through the Baskerville facility. He was reminded of carnivals and mirrors, and creepy clowns and grass hedges. His sister had dragged him into a spooky maze, once – green walls built up of leaves were wherever he turned, clouding his vision, masking his whereabouts. He had been terrified – so terrified he had simply screamed for an hour until his sister had eventually found him, curled up within the depths of the hedge, knees to his chest, cheeks swollen, and eyes sore.

John swallowed the lump in his throat, pressing onwards through the corridors and hallways, legs falling weak, aching, burning and sweltering against the ash-filled air. Just as he was about to take another corner, a door before him flew open, slamming against the white wall with frighteningly harsh force, a bang surely emanating throughout the whole of the facility.

And then, John saw Mycroft. His suit was ruffled, his tie nearly loose and undone, his cheeks red, his forehead baring beads of sweat, and his hair no longer perfectly combed. His eyes widened as they fell onto to John, the man's brother cradled in his arms, and a large rectangular device tucked beneath him.

"John," Mycroft Holmes panted, shaking his head at the short figure huffing and puffing before him, arms full, "quickly, this way. Fire escape."

Sherlock's brother hurriedly grabbed the portable charger from John's hands, clasping its handle between his plump fingers, before kicking the door open, and gesturing for John to enter first. The ex-soldier did so, and before he knew it, the two of them were tumbling down the stairs, feet moving impeccably fast, minds blank and merely focused on one task: flee.

"Is this your doing?" John breathed, choking on the sudden change in air, though still not wholly fresh, "The fire?"  
He wouldn't put it past the man; it was something he was surely capable of pulling off.

But Mycroft shook his head, merely frowning; his eyes squinted in concern, "No. And that's what worries me."

John found no comforting quality in the depths of Mycroft's statement and suddenly he was fretting again, dread cluttering his senses, dread for the man in his arms. They plummeted down the last step, feet pounding the floor with bruising force, slamming against the hard concrete, as they hurried for the next door, of which John prayed would finally be the exit. He couldn't take the bitter taste of foul air any longer.

"John, things are going to get complicated from here on out," Mycroft panted, eyes serious, expression earnest and warning.

John let out a short laugh, a mere huff of weary amusement, "And they weren't already complicated before?"

With a glance over his shoulder, Mycroft's eyes were soothingly soft, dropping from John to Sherlock, and back, his expression clouded with a look of both reluctance and relief. Then, turning back around to face forward, the "British Government" slammed into the double doors before him, grey and highlighted with the simple, bold words, '_Fire Escape'_.

And John was finally breathing in clean air, refreshingly vibrant, utterly freeing, sublime and sparkling. He sighed, inhaling deeply through his nose and out through his mouth, reveling in the blissful touch of unmarked air.

The screech of car tires interrupted John's sweet heaven of salubrious oxygen, and the sudden grasp of a hand on his forearm had John whirling to his left, flying towards a black Mercedes, shimmering wickedly in the light of the dimming sun. He adjusted his grip on Sherlock, the man's head lolling to rest on his shoulder, eyes shut gracefully, wavy, chocolate hair long and wiry, and pursued Mycroft towards the vehicle.

Two men leaped out, suits perfected, hair gelled back, glasses shadowing their features, and reached for the doors, yanking them open and ushering them through. Mycroft slid in first, extending his hands to help John place Sherlock along the car seat's cushions. They managed to sit him upwards, but as John scooted inside, Sherlock leaned toward him, the entirety of his body weight hitting John like a wave.

A good wave. A wave of compelling admiration, and obvious content.

Slowly, and to himself, he smiled, eyes dropping to watch Sherlock, completely and utterly still, as though dead once more, a mere corpse in John's capable hands, yet so much greater. With a relieved sigh, of which John believed he deserved, he glanced at Mycroft, a frown in place, questioning the brother's slack expression.

"What now?" He asked, arching a brow and placing one hand across the side of Sherlock's head, the tips of his fingers just brushing the man's temple.

Mycroft didn't even turn toward him; he merely sat, rigid and tense, staring out the car window as the vehicle pulled out of Baskerville, a huge, grey, threatening building, John pleaded he'd never see again.

"We _disappear."_

* * *

_A/N: Sorry for the minor shortness! _  
_I will update as soon as physically possible!_


	16. Author's Note

Author's Note:

Don't panic! This isn't going to be one of those notes blabbering on about "oh sorry can't finish the fic" because **I CAN. AND I WILL.**  
I am terribly sorry for how long you guys have had to wait as of yet. Life's been _shit_ recently and I've really been trying to keep up with things but it seems I just can't. I'll get something done and then next thing I know, something else is going on that I have to take care of.

I'm also at that time in my life where certain decisions I make will determine the course of my future. Oh _goody. _

But I just want you all to know that I am really trying, I've just been struggling through writer's block for this story, and its been hard to update anything let alone Clockwork.

The story will continue! Hopefully I will manage to get one out this week.  
Just please carry on being patient with me and oh so kind.

I love you all and hope you all remain with me.  
Review if you like, and if you have any questions, I am always here.

Thank you!

All the best!  
Your author. xxx


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